A first real autumn day. Suddenly I feel the cold through my coat, my doorstep is covered with crackling leaves, drizzle falls from a gray sky at regular intervals. From the subway station where I get off in Suzhou, I walk briskly to the university, gasping for oxygen through my stuffy nose, occasionally emptying my nose into a handkerchief that smells like mango—or smelled like mango before I used it.
Apart from some recent health issues (suffered a sore throat, sweating, bedridden, was it a fever or flu or something else?) another iconic time of the year has arrived. A time of warmth turned inward. A time of travel, party, family, food. A feeling of nostalgia for the future when the windows can be thrown open again, the coffee stays warm in the sun, and we start looking back at the geniality and coziness of the past few months.
But also: homesickness for the elusive past, dissolved like sugar in tea. A Christmas tree that reached to the ceiling, hung with glass angels, silver baubles, garlands of shiny paper, while Bing Crosby guided us through the consumption of butter sticks and Christmas bread. Christmas: barren emptiness outside and plenty inside, carnival for the holy spirit, a play against the will of the biting cold to make us freeze on a barren frozen plain.
My head feels like a Christmas ball filled with water, but the thin branch on which I hold on to can slowly relax.
Written on November 25, 2019