There's something comforting about the quiet, slow, dull ache of carrying heartache around. It becomes a mantra, a way to get through the days. And it's strange how that comfort can very much feels like falling in love.
When I moved to Toronto, the damp that filled the air in autumn was what shocked me most. I never felt dry. I walked with french braided hair through Port Elgin, admiring giant pumpkins and longing with the dry cold snap of Alberta. Everything about fall in Cold Lake is crisp: the sound of the leaves, the way the air hurts when it hits your lungs, the sound when the furnace clicks on for the first time. It's those sharp inhalations of air that I miss most. It's definitive. You know that the frost settles every night and that your breath will condense when it hits the air in the morning.
Autumn in northern Alberta is an ugly, harsh time. The colours aren't vibrant. Instead, everything just dies. It curls and turns brown and dries until there's nothing but carcasses of seasons past littering the ground.