Yesterday, I went to my parents’ place, to the farm I grew up.
The autumn is there, full-blown.
I was picking apples, from an apple tree the like of which I have not found in the whole country.
They are transparent honey-yellow, like autumn sunshine. Their middles contain pure translucent juice that one can drink without chewing. And the smell… the fragrance that brings the whole world’s worth of summer holidays back. Or at least that bit of summer holidays that was enjoyable.
The best time of autumn has come, the apple-time and the late potato-time, the time when the world smells of moist soil and expectation. When the birds start moving, taking our hearts with them, till the spring return them.
Like for any bird of flight, it is painfully easy to leave. To think of what would and could happen in my absence. To … expect… something, knowing that most of it hopefully, will not come true. I wonder, do all those that have to leave for a longer period of time, feel this strange thing? Or maybe only those that cannot abide outside their own land?
That smell of apples from that one tree that sprouted from a seed at about the time I was born, that brings me home. Or maybe – to the home I have always wanted.