It is my last morning in Boston, for the time being. And Mother Nature has washed the city during the night. The breeze is gentle and the humidity has dropped. The broad leaves on old tall trees are the kind of green that satisfies something deep within me.
This is the morning when I am a girl again exploring the woods around my childhood home in Connecticut. There was young tree that I could shake the rain off the leaves, pretending it was shower. I would take my Barbies under the mountain laurels, sit on thick moss and play house.
A part of seduction must be memory that is held in our skin. The touch of air that conjures a sweet ache. It’s too bad that the word in contemporary usage has a sexual connotation. Pragmatic and romantic, I sense seduction as a dance, a right of way, a process. Yes it can lead into temptation but I’m thinking of a two-step, face to face, a turn, a little girl spinning and spinning and falling into soft grass.
And Boston and I have been dancing for decade. Boston for the last nine years has been seducing me into returning. Mornings like this it is easy to forget snow. Makes it easy to forget the humidity just two days ago as I helped my son pack up his house, as I keep a busy toddler out of harms way from big trucks and moving men. Two days ago, waiting Park Street Station’s foul, stale air. Park Street where 19th century technology and 21st intersect underground. (Never liked Park Street, even when I lived here.)
I will not see this kind of weather for weeks and weeks when I return to my home in Austin. Geographical seduction will call to me as I long for deep shade that calls for a chair and reading.
This parting from this city this time is to let go and dance with tiger.