Autumn

Chapter 6

A few days later, I found myself at the turn of the century post office which sat on the corner across from the coffee shop where the tequila incident had occurred. Its red brick exterior was large and intimidating, and the inside smelled tart and clean, like envelope glue and Pine-Sol. I sighed as a burst of ice-cold air conditioning met my face upon entry. The queue nearly burst out of the place, 4pm being the time we all finally remembered to ship what we wanted to before closing. 

The phone rang. 

"Sorry, ma'am. I guess I'll answer that since the computer's already locked up." The woman at the front desk said tiredly. The woman she was attending; a spry middle-aged artist-type, had turned slightly to view the rest of the line. Only to whip back around upon recognizing the man that had just walked in.

"Terry! How are you?" She was very loud for someone so small, and I lost most of the conversation as I scrolled through Pinterest. I caught a few bits here and there.

At some point a woman came in from the back with a roll-away cart. Annoyance written all over her face, and she fell easily into conversation with the entire rest of the line. I guessed she knew them. 

"Some idiot from Oklahoma nearly nailed me in the tail in the parking lot."

"It's always Oklahoma." A freckled woman shook her head. "They don't have hills there, apparently." A man added, and everyone had a good laugh.

I felt like I was in some sort of sitcom without a script, though quietly admired how much I loved the place, as I found the idea that you could walk into any room in town and fall easily into conversation with everyone there, completely charming. My hometown in Carrollville was a small town too, but southern Arkansas was hot, dirty, and flat with nothing to do and no art.

"It's that damn Mercury." The woman with the cart said, filing the mail. Everyone nodded soberly at this. 

"I bet you any day now, it'll go retrograde. It's been quiet for too long." Someone in the crowd added.

"It's going retrograde on the fourth." I blurted. Though mercury was almost constantly in retrograde, and in my opinion, more of a convenient scapegoat for ill luck, we stood in that line for at least an hour companionably talking about the stars and the universe and God. 

I was definitely meant to be here, I thought. 

No- I was born to be here.

--

It was later that afternoon when the sun washed gold over the house and sparkled in the trees that I found myself working in my little garden outside of the kitchen. I was wearing green overalls and a big floppy hat. Not because the sun was especially intense, but because I hated bugs and ticks most of all. These which seemed to flood the area in high August.

Some of my plants, like my ivy leaf geranium, and delicate morning glories required daily watering. And as I went about the task, I realized that nothing relaxed me, or was more cathartic than tending to a garden. I was amazed to find most of my spring flowers lively and at attention despite it being a time of year for them to wilt in the heat. I wasn't sure how long the week's cool down would last, but anything even moderately fall-like would give me respite. Polar bear that I was.

After hosing down most of the nursery, everything was green and sparkling with little water droplets that caught the light and danced in the breeze.

I wound the hose up when I'd finished, bare feet smacking raucously on the wet pavement as I toddled around, and I paused for a moment, viewing the sun hanging in the treetops like an ascending angel. 

There had always been something familiar about the place. It was what drew me to it in the first place, like I was coming home, and it all made sense now.