Sara Hodges, Guest Writer (shodges@wwc)
The Granite State
The land I come from is bold. The land I come from is steeped in the stubborn will to survive. The sureness that the gardens will grow, the winter will end, the Bears, Foxes, Mergansers, Geese, and Loons will return in the spring. I am from a place where seasonal depression runs rampant, where extra weight in the winter is expected, and beaches in the beginning of the summer are reflective from the shear whiteness of the pale skin.
I come from a land of mountains, lakes, rivers, and oceans. I come from a land who’s rolling mountains and valleys make my heart surge with strength; a land whose cliffs humiliated and empowered me. I long for the place where I am from. Deep down in the inner most sanctions of my core, This land cradles me like my mother cradled me after a bad dream. It heals my wounds, and stands me erect and strong.
Autumn: September, October, November
The boulders here are the size of small houses (falling from one would break something) we pass them by, merely sliding hands over their wide, wise faces and looking ahead to the next. A lot of wisdom lies in the thick of these woods. The winds rustle the leaves, lighting on your eardrum as an applause after the opera, a standing ovation after a show, a long haired girl shaking the smells of summer off and looking towards autumn. The glow of reds, yellows, oranges spray each mountain in this notch as if it were a rusty old drain. The air tastes richer than in August, the taste of the last tomatoes dripping from your tongue, only to be replaced by the rich crack of an apple. The tart wince of cider, and the smell of smoke rising from every chimney, excite your senses till you feel tired while your heart is full. The exhausted weight of the air of summer subsides and the shoots of rich oxygen heavy air wind through the hills hitting, encompassing, your entire body at each tree gap. Once you hit tree line on Mt. Madison, your chest fills with awe and your eyes cannot shut. These are the hills you are from, these are the hills that broke you as you climbed them, but rewarded you a thousand times over once you hit the hard granite knob. You see sister mountains spread out yonder, and your hands swell from lack of use. The great breath of the earth, full of color and sweat is present as if it is assisting your lungs, willing them to breath in and out. These are the mountains you are made of, and as the complexion of the landscape glows with the bonfire of colors.