1 6 T H E T U S C A R O R A R E V I E W 2 0 2 2 My bike glides downhill, less silent now that I’m not pedaling it. The wheels turn, click click click click, as they carry me down the road. The comforting sound is nearly drowned out by the wind roaring in my ears. I pass houses with strings of lights wrapped around trees and porch railings. With Halloween in three days, decorations have materialized. Little candles glow in the windows—electric lanterns with orange plastic flames. It’s dark enough now that I slow down hard before I turn onto Palo Road, its presence indicated by the crimson stop sign beaming back at me in reflected light. The street is dark, no windows glowing. I wonder where the people are. No one sleeps at seven in the evening. Maybe they’re all out. Probably not. The night is too warm and too quiet. The fog turns a familiar landscape into something odd and alien. I glimpse a lonely house light, a set of orange lanterns flickering like flames, and suddenly think of the winter holiday season, the lights people put up. The air smells like woodsmoke, a scent that usually reminds me of bright fall leaves and hot chocolate. In the murky night, though, it is ominous. Riding alone in the almost-dark, I’m reminded of an apocalyptic Christmas. Too warm for December, too foggy, but with lights and fires ready.
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