I was walking along Walter Street today when a big gust of wind blew past, scattering leaves and papers and making a cute toddler, who was tromping sturdily along the curb and holding her father’s hand, giggle and clap with delight.

It was just getting dark, and as I looked up at the porch lights of the houses, admiring the dark stained glass panes on the doors and decorating imaginary homes with dark, cozy rooms, I got such a feeling of there-ness, of Cambridge, or Somerville, of streets and houses and fall nights, and the snow and the smell of it, and oh, I just wanted to go home. Home home, twenty years ago home (though now that I think of it, not twenty years ago, because twelve was kind of awkward).

Anyway, Christmas will be here soon enough, and Brian and I will be holed up in my old bedroom, and I can sit awake at night and look out over the porch roof at the bright pools the streetlights make on the snow. That’ll be nice.