Circulation.

I am cold.

I’m cold, I’m cold, I’m cold.

I am wearing: Socks. Shoes. Thick wool ankle-warmers that I crafted last year by cutting off the foot portion of a pair of thick wool socks. Jeans. Long-sleeved t-shirt (“Hope Won”). Hoody. Another hoody. Micro-waved hot compress, tucked into the back of my jeans (my lower back is often the coldest part on my body). And I’m considering a scarf. Because I’m still cold.

Only rarely is all of me is cold, all at once. Usually it’s just bits and pieces — by the end of the day, these bits are likely to include my feet, hands, and nose, but currently, it’s the back of my neck, my thighs, and my ankles (yes, really. Even with three layers, one of them wool). It’s a seasonal thing.

I love fall, actually. I think it might be my favorite time of year. There is something so cozy about it, this sense that you’re supposed to turn inwards and quietly care for your own, gather your food into the cellar, smoke a side of beef or something. When I lived in Israel, I really missed watching the leaves turn, and now that I have a maple out my front door, I often just stand and look at it, as it reaches, passes through, and sheds its yellow glory. That’s all over for the year now, but I don’t begrudge the tree the brevity of its color. It’s in the nature of things.

As is, apparently, the fact that I get cold in October, and warm up in April. I wish I had someone to come in every morning to make me my oatmeal, and then make me soup, whenever I need it. Broth steaming, filling the kitchen and the stairwell and my wee little office with an air of onion and celery and barley. I would shake salt across a golden surface, dip in my spoon, and feel warmth spread from tongue to toes. Pull down a zipper, unwind the scarf, and take another sip.