There is something lonely about driving home from work this time of year. Work is, for me, a pretty lonely place in itself, so I spend the long day looking forward to going home. Then when I actually do go home, sunset arrives within minutes and the gray and dead grass landscape takes on the shades of twilight. I drive through town looking for comfort in the lights; if I stop at the grocery store maybe I see someone I know, maybe the guy who has bagged my groceries for seven years now, who has watched my kids grow up, the guy who will yell hello from across the parking lot. He does not know, some days I live for that kind of friendliness, and I am grateful that he gives it so freely.
I arrive home as the last of the light fades, greeted by the welcoming lights of the house and a fire in the wood stove. But I sit in the car for another minute or two because there is a song on the radio, an orchestral piece for which I once played the essential flute part. Faure's Pavane. I have had part of this tune in my head for a while now, and I am glad to finally hear the whole thing again!
Darkness falls so early in November. I retreat quickly to comfort, to pajamas and my rocking chair by the wood stove and flannel sheets. It's the longest time until spring, and for now we must seek warmth and light and the company of others.