Near to heaven

I'm sitting up late in the family room, luxuriating in my new blanket and seven million channels. I'm watching Little Women, the movie adaptation of one of my favorite books of all time. (Starring a very young Batman, Christian Bale.) It's one of those movies I love dearly, but seldom watch (it makes me cry). I always feel comforted when I watch it (or read the amazing book) -- I feel less different watching Jo March, knowing that Louisa May Alcott wrote her the same as she was herself: strong willed, independent...difficult. I'm glad to get a chance to sit down and watch it now, though it won't be done until almost 3.

The air is cool and crisp through the window, and I saw on the way up that a few of the trees have started to turn red. Outside, it smells so familiar. I smell the blackberry bushes hidden in the back, the leaves beginning to lose their green, the woods beginning to go dormant for the winter. It smells like home, like a million memories of the summer, out in the backyard talking after dark, stealing secret cigarettes in the park, late nights out at the end of Essex sitting in the field and looking at the stars.

Amazingly, even though I'm not a big fan of winter in general, I'm actually eager for my first New England winter in six years. My God help me.