The Season of Falling: A Letter Written Under the Weather


My Dear Columbia,
It is raining. Not the polite sort of rain, but a rather more committed sort. I write to you from the parlor, a little under the weather, as the saying goes. Rufus is purring contentedly on the windowsill. 

My physician (by which I mean my own preference) has prescribed hot oatmeal and a cup of chamomile tea. I may even be forced to add a pinch of whiskey, strictly for medicinal purposes, of course. One does not enjoy the stuff. One merely endures it, heroically, for the good of the constitution.

Beyond the window, the leaves are letting go, helped along by the endless drops, which tug at each one insistently. And through the gray I hear voices: those hardy souls who are either brave enough or foolish enough to be walking in such weather. Bravery and folly, dear reader, sometimes share the same umbrella.

October is a fickle month, one that cannot settle on a mood. Yesterday, it was bright and beautiful and temperate, all golden light and good manners. Today it is gray, damp, and pouting, and has clearly not been invited anywhere.

Yet there is a lesson here, if one is willing to sit still long enough — and I am, having no other choice. We must take the good with the bad. The sun returns. There is always hope, and I am told it keeps well even in the rain.

As for myself, I hope to be back shortly, at the very least in time for the next installment. In the meantime, keep your boots dry and your spirits drier.

Until next time…

Your Devoted Correspondent,
Cassandra 

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