Losing warmth

It happens overnight. There is no warning, no gradual change from the green leaves of summer to russet browns, reds, lights of dying leaves on trees swaying in the breeze. No, here the Holland autumn arrives in gales, winds, and thick blankets of damp fog, misting over all of us. Even through walls.

My window, open to the dawn, is soon slick with drops. Laundry out to hang for the night is still wet, hanging dejectedly 4 stories up, on the ledge. Lights glimmer faintly at the edge of dawn, now three hours late where once through windows the light could not keep us in bed past six a.m.

The kitchen is full of suppressed coughs, of dejected looks. The weather is bad, we are going to go pale. Colds begin at the mere suggestion of the rain beginning, and packets of tea, herbal remedies, and nasal decongestants are passed like candy. Skin color is examined... the hues of Africa and Asia will soon be forgotten in the misty gray of the North. There is worry- will our color go grey, too?

Outside, leaves and chestnuts litter the ground. They are mere debris, the trees rejecting the life from their limbs quickly. You have to duck when you hear the crack, or the nut will get you where you are at. I pick one, nice warm and smoothly freed from its spiky casing- hold it for the comfort it gives.

I am reminded of how the Dutch masters achieved their painting fame. Their reflection of the world around them was seen as the magic of art, when it was more like an early photograph. This is how it is, how winter comes. Long months of Lowland dissolvement. Cloudy skies mirrored in the land like a mirage, the sea earth and heavens as one. The color of the light, like a reflection of a memory of the sun.

The cold weather has begun.