by Émélie Beaudry
Come September, when the breeze starts to cool and the leaves start to brown, I know where I will find myself.
I will stand before the same building, walk the same halls. The beginning of the school year is a return to routine. The summer is unrestrained, disorderly, but the fall is structured, settling over me with the comfortable weight of a heavy coat not worn since last season.
The coat is foreign but familiar. Untouched in months, but the stiffness of the fabric on my shoulders is a comfort. The wear of the sleeves fits into place. As I walk, I button up the coat, from top to bottom. I remind myself of the fall, of the rituals and the routines. The third button on the left is loose. I handle it carefully.
I slip my hands into the pockets and find what I expect: my gloves, some loose coins, an old receipt. But I also find the unexpected: a loose button, a trinket I once picked off the ground, a scrap of paper a friend doodled for me. Things I had forgotten, missing from the shape of the jacket in my mind.
Now, in September, as the breeze turns to wind, and the leaves start to fall, I stand before the same building. I walk the familiar halls. I decide to leave my coat open today, and feel the wind against my face.