The light leaves earlier now. By five it has gone amber, then blue, then nothing at all.
Nobody plans the evenings that matter. The pot stays on the stove. A second cup goes cold beside the first. Someone pulls the blanket off the back of the chair and doesn't put it back.
This is the part of the year that doesn't rush you.
Madera was made for it. Not the fire itself, but what stays in the wool of a sweater the next morning. It isn't loud, and it doesn't make an entrance. It's already in the room when you notice it, and it's still there after you've gone.
the hand soap
At the sink, between one thing and the next. Warm water, a lather that smells of wood. You'll catch it again an hour later as you lift a glass or turn a page. It takes its time leaving.
the linen water
Two sprays across the duvet before bed. The sheets stop feeling cold and start feeling kept. It's the last thing you smell at night and, somehow, the first thing in the morning.
Some things catch fast and burn out. This one is slow, and it stays long after.
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