Deep autumn

I remember one autumn evening when the weather was so dreadful that I thought nature was out to kill and Transylvania was having a nervous breakdown. I was in an old car, and my friend was listening to viking metal as we were gliding over the hills, heading home. It was too early in the autumn to snow; nonetheless, snow was there and we could hardly see anything but grey-striped black 100m ahead. I nestled deeper in the seat and started making out ghosts, trees, haunted castles and dragons in the dark spots between the flakes which had landed on the windows. I was warm and sleepy, too sleepy to say anything about the happiness that was making my cheeks blush, about the obscure fascination I had for dangerous weather, the kind that could destroy. So I closed my eyes and started praying for the journey to continue forever. To be trapped forever between the hills around my home town, out in the storm, driving aimlessly through the cold and the dark, but knowing for sure that mom is baking butter biscuits and boiling wine with pieces of fruit and cinnamon sticks, waiting for me to knock on her door.