As my host mother pours the coffee powder into the canister, the doors and windows open, letting in the soft autumn air, it feels like home. In Fall, with the sighing trees, and the hazelnuts cracked open on the sidewalk, I feel like a part of me is being wisped away. My corpse shedding with the leaves, and scattering across the square, leaving me to think. Today the clouds are sailing across the roofs of houses, the chimneys, old rusted red tiles, the cocks that tell the direction, and tangling with the church spire. I sit looking out my window, a cup of coffee in hand, feeling the time pass. People sit at Les Cessonias leaning over their wine, cider, coffee, arms leaning on the table, heads resting against their hand with their cigarette, you can hear the men laughing, see the bar man, with his apron, standing smoking in the doorway. A few cars pass, bicycles wandering through the square, parents with their children, legs dangling over the backs of the bikes. A motorcycle flying down the street, and the same old man and woman taking their walk, to the church bench, looking out with squinted, soft eyes, hands wrapped around their canes. It smells of the old leaves, the sweet cigarettes, and of coffee.
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