Bonfire Night

For the third consecutive year, I've turned the November page on my calendar and felt the pangs of longing for England. Why is the fifth day named after Guy Fawkes, by the way? (If the CIA had foiled September 11th would we name a day after Osama bin Laden? I think not.) It's this time of year when the weather becomes predictably murky, routinely dark, and just the right temperature to raid the wardrobe for the warmer threads. Mother turns on the central heating for the first time, and you're welcomed into a typhoon of homeliness when you return from school, soothing your stinging cheeks and numbing fingers. The daily routine that took flight in September has fully settled at a constant thirty thousand feet. You're in your comfort zone, and the smaller problems in life take on a significance that was previously denied by the bustling application of new rituals and new rules. Temporarily, I miss England.