“I miss the smell of the fields in winter. It’s kind of metallic. I miss October, November smells. Trees. Wet piles of leaves.”
The crisp air, tinged with frost, carrying whispers of dormant earth. I miss the way my breath would fog in front of me, a fleeting ghost in the early morning light. The crunch of frozen grass underfoot, each step a miniature symphony of dewy crystals giving way.
I miss how the world seemed to quiet down, as if nature itself was taking a deep breath before the long sleep ahead. The way smoke from distant chimneys would hang low in the still air, bringing with it the comforting scent of woodfires and the promise of warmth.
Those muted colors too – the soft greys and browns, punctuated by the occasional flash of deep red from a stubborn peepal leaf clinging to its branch. How everything felt more… honest somehow. Stripped down to its essence, no longer hiding behind the lush greens of summer or the showy blossoms of spring.
God, and the stars. The stars on those clear winter nights, so sharp and bright they almost hurt to look at. Like you could reach out and pluck them right out of that inky sky.
I miss feeling small under that vast expanse, yet somehow more connected to everything. The quiet. The stillness. The sense that the world was holding its breath, waiting for something. For spring, maybe. Or just for whatever comes next.