Spiced.

I rode my bike to work today. Six days left of this life as I know it.I'd left early enough to take my time; I pedaled slowly and took in the sunlight, tried to find nuance along the same street I've been traveling every morning for nearly two months now. Feeling like the neighborhood is just waking up as I make my way to work is strange, but not unfamiliar.

The same persistent dogs tug at their leashes, dragging barely-awake owners to their favorite hydrant or planters, carrying out their daily routine with a joy that's hard to fathom.

But I do feel that much more of a spring in my step, a push to my pedal. The bumps along Paulina Street bother me less and less. Maybe it's because I know I won't have to endure them much longer. I won't have to endure any of it much longer. Or maybe it's because I have too much else on my mind to notice those nicks in the road, bites taken out by years of wear and tear or a single harsh winter's salt and snow.

But I did notice today: The neighborhood smelled like cinnamon. For just about a quarter block or so. And I smiled the rest of the way to the train station. Cinnamon in the air, just warm enough to imagine myself back in my kitchen, steam fogging up my glasses as I peer into the oven to check on a baking pan of Pillsbury rolls. But cool enough to feel fall creeping in. Not quite a chill, but a cardigan doesn't seem outlandish in that cinnamon sweetness.

The mercury dips; I'm floating.