I love the month of October. Each year, it feels like a return to someplace familiar. As Kerouac says in On The Road, “Everybody goes home in October.”
Thomas Wolfe agrees:
All things on earth point home in old October: sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.
October feels like shedding skin, like wearing socks beneath the covers, like falling in love for the first time. It’s sound of a familiar voice, the shiver that rattles your breath, the road sign that says you’ve almost arrived.