Made in New England

The candle smells of balsam fir

Only faintly

I bought it at the bookstore down the street

“Real pine needles”

“Made in New England”

It’s getting colder

My car is frosted in the morning

My breath hangs in the air like a ghost

Today the sun will set at 4:13pm

The afternoon light moves around the room, making strange shapes

Illuminating an old chair in the corner

Elongating the neck of my brother’s guitar

Uncovering one half of a photograph on the wall

A spotlight on my great grandmother’s sheet music

More ghosts

Outside the window the remaining leaves on the big oak tree cling for life

They tremble in the wind

Are they scared to stay or go?

The last November I spent in Maine

Was the November of my mother’s death

Eighteen years ago

A teenager

Before I drove West

Fall in LA is fire season

The best sunsets of the year

Cotton candy skies that burn orange and then an unnatural red

The only change from one day to the next

In a land of endless summer

I crave the dry heat of California

Here the sun is a fickle friend

But the air is always crisp

And the trees mark the passing of time with an unremarkable urgency

Real pine needles

Made in New England

I pour myself a cup of spearmint tea

There’s a message on the bottom of the mug:

The End.

It was my mother’s

Now it is mine