Every year it’s the same thing. November comes to New England, bringing with it a bitter, gray cold. No snow yet to cover the dinginess, the dead grass, the naked trees. A low slate sky rests its belly on the rooftops and turns to darkness much too early at the end of each day.

My Mother would tell you that every year around this time I call her to tell her I HAVE TO MOVE SOUTH. I call it the November Itch. My version of the 7-year itch only unrelated to any relationship or person. It’s the itch to find a younger, more vibrant and exciting climate to live in. The itch to run when things get ugly. The itch to trade in browned lawns for white sand beaches and sallow skin for golden.

November in New England is to me like a lover’s morning breath, or unclipped toenails, or grey, sagging long underwear. Every year at this time I have to either ignore it, or embrace it because I know that I will fall in love again when the first real snowfall settles in and I breathe the crisp air that follows. My heart will thaw and swell when I hear the first running water of Spring and smell the wet earth. And summer is never sweeter than when you know it is fleeting.

Image from http://moblog.co.uk/view.php?id=45558

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