Memories

No matter how much I willed it, the small red and yellow patches in the trees of the French countryside that my train was hurtling by as it carried me from my French life to my Swiss life, could not be converted into the splendid colours of New England.
As I looked out the window, I was flooded with memories of those Massachusetts autumn colours. When I worked with DEC I was treated to panoramas of reds and yellows and would look forward to the turning of certain maples along my route to and from work.
Then there was the stop at Aunt Sadie's farm stand to choose a pumpkin from the wagon out front and fresh pressed cider.
Walking the boys, Japanese chins Albert and Amadeus, along the Muddy River, our feet and paws trod on huge leaves making a colourful carpet.
This led to other memories of my Riverway apartment and my dusty rose bedroom and sunshine yellow office. I would write and I could hear Llara in her bedroom as she practised her bassoon or played her music: Duran, Duran, Falco, Cats and even Bach.
And in my kitchen on Saturday mornings, I often would bake bread filling the house with nice yeasty smells, always leaving a little dough to make fried bread with maple syrup for lunch.
And there were the walks to Brookline Village with its small brick stores, where I could buy Dutch hot chocolate mix or paté for a special treat. Or devouring magazines in the Brookline Library as I waited for Llara to finish work.
None of these memories made me sad, but merely wistful for a time that can never be relived. Yet at the same time, I can bring out these memories anytime and enjoy them. Unlike when I was living them, there is no need to pause to vac the rug free of dog fur or remind Llara to take out the trash.
The leaves were a little more colourful as we got closer to the Swiss border, but they will never even at their finest, match New England's foliage.
And by the time I walked through customs, flashing my lovely red passport, I was ready to make a whole bunch of new memories with a reminder to myself to enjoy the making as well as the remembering.