‘Fall’ing into our neighborhood

I should be over it now, I know

It doesn’t matter much how old I grow

I hate to see October go.

—“When October Goes,” Barry Manilow/Johnny Mercer

For 11 years, I have been walking the sidewalks of Rossmoor.

My favorite time to walk is at sunset, when the sky is a swirl of lavender and gold and a quiet has settled over the neighborhood.

Now, in October, the giant oaks are turning, and the sidewalks are strewn with amber-colored leaves.

As I walk, I step on the biggest ones to hear them crunch, a habit I developed as a little girl and one I refuse to give up.

Stomp, crackle, crunch! And suddenly, I am 10 again.

It rained earlier in the day. The sky is clean, and I can see the sun’s true color: a pure, blinding white.

The color of a star, I realize. It illuminates the trees and glints the rooftops, still wet with rain.

A silhouette of birds crosses the gleaming landscape.

The rain has ripened the scents: I smell eucalyptus and soaked earth, tree bark and cut grass.

Dinner is being made: I smell garlic bread and steak.

From a garage comes the steady hum of a clothes drier and the heavy perfume of detergent.

The wind kicks up, and a flock of dried leaves tumbles down the street.

I remember how my youngest son, Christopher, would delight in that, how he would laugh wildly from his stroller as the leaves scurried past him.

I catch myself giggling, too.

The sunless sky deepens to purple. Lights flick on within the homes; they glow like carved pumpkins.

I see an old man doing dishes at his kitchen sink, a woman watching the news on her big-screen.

A dog yelps from a window, and his owner shouts to quiet him. A teenage boy drags out the trash. Sprinklers hiss.

The sweet scent of chimney smoke touches the air, and a strange feeling of nostalgia swells inside of me.

What is it about October? It brings a longing, a yearning for who I once was: a little girl buttoned up for trick-or-treating, a school girl with new shoes and sharpened pencils.

A child who believed in Santa Claus, in Christmas magic, and who believed, unequivocally, in the goodness of the world.

I am home, and as I walk up my driveway,

I feel myself letting go of her. I turn for a last look at the balding trees, shadowy under the streetlights, and the silvery arc of moon.

The neighborhood is still now, tucked in.

It is a beautiful autumn night.

How I hate to see it go.

Christa Chavez is a wife, mother and Rossmoor resident.