Here, in the mountains in the middle of the world, the seasons never change, save for a tendency towards more rain, or less. The sun rises at 6:30 every morning of the year and sets at 6:30 every night. The days grow neither shorter nor longer, and in obeisance thereof, summer plants thrive ceaselessly, never giving way to gourds, which then give way to freeze. The temperature drops at night, but not with the definitive tone of a sudden chill which tells you: Summer is ending, has ended, will always end.
And when this does not happen, when summer does not end and fall does not begin, when the air around you doesn’t suddenly, vividly, involuntarily recall every summer’s ending past, every fall’s beginning, every leaf that ever bit your ankle in New York or every love you ever used to keep warm, then I wonder: What recourse does nostalgia have, here in paradise? How does it make itself known?
It would use something sharp. Something fleeting. Maybe smell, that classic culprit, or certain rare configurations of sunset. I wonder all this, knowing it is fall at home, and feeling nostalgic from a sense of logic, or perhaps habit. But neither logic nor habit ache, and so I wonder again: When do old loves and distant memories sporadically unearth themselves, if not with the changing of seasons? When do you become suddenly, breathlessly aware of time passing if the sun is constant and faithful and gives you no reason to believe that there won’t always be more warmth, and more berries?