I should be over it now, I know
It doesn’t matter much how old I grow
I hate to see October go.
—“When October Goes,” Barry Manilow/Johnny Mercer
For 11 years, I have been walking the sidewalks of Rossmoor.
My favorite time to walk is at sunset, when the sky is a swirl of lavender and gold and a quiet has settled over the neighborhood.
Now, in October, the giant oaks are turning, and the sidewalks are strewn with amber-colored leaves.
As I walk, I step on the biggest ones to hear them crunch, a habit I developed as a little girl and one I refuse to give up.
Stomp, crackle, crunch! And suddenly, I am 10 again.
It rained earlier in the day. The sky is clean, and I can see the sun’s true color: a pure, blinding white.
The color of a star, I realize. It illuminates the trees and glints the rooftops, still wet with rain.
A silhouette of birds crosses the gleaming landscape.
The rain has ripened the scents: I smell eucalyptus and soaked earth, tree bark and cut grass.
Dinner is being made: I smell garlic bread and steak.
From a garage comes the steady hum of a clothes drier and the heavy perfume of detergent.
The wind kicks up, and a flock of dried leaves tumbles down the street.
I remember how my youngest son, Christopher, would delight in that, how he would laugh wildly from his stroller as the leaves scurried past him.
I catch myself giggling, too.
The sunless sky deepens to purple. Lights flick on within the homes; they glow like carved pumpkins.
I see an old man doing dishes at his kitchen sink, a woman watching the news on her big-screen.
A dog yelps from a window, and his owner shouts to quiet him. A teenage boy drags out the trash. Sprinklers hiss.
The sweet scent of chimney smoke touches the air, and a strange feeling of nostalgia swells inside of me.
What is it about October? It brings a longing, a yearning for who I once was: a little girl buttoned up for trick-or-treating, a school girl with new shoes and sharpened pencils.
A child who believed in Santa Claus, in Christmas magic, and who believed, unequivocally, in the goodness of the world.
I am home, and as I walk up my driveway,
I feel myself letting go of her. I turn for a last look at the balding trees, shadowy under the streetlights, and the silvery arc of moon.
The neighborhood is still now, tucked in.
It is a beautiful autumn night.
How I hate to see it go.
Christa Chavez is a wife, mother and Rossmoor resident.
