It usually takes a while before it truly sinks in. I allow myself a window of numbness, and then all of a sudden it comes screaming at me like a Mack truck with cut brakes. Each impact sends me flying back into myself, vowing never again to step outside my cozy little walls. And each time, it takes about a week for me to come poking my head out, assessing the situation.
I've been thinking of Iowa again; specifically, Autumn in Iowa. They make a big deal out of harvest time there, so much so that in the days before the Great Floyd River Flood and the economic downfall of Sioux City, they would build sprawling palaces of corn in the middle of the city. The palaces were so large that they hosted actual theaters, mosaics, fountains, and colonnades, all made entirely of corn (and wood, of course). Though the tradition has since died out, the harvest time is still a huge happening. People wander the place in such an upbeat and cheery mood that it's enough to make any outsider feel as if they're outside of humanity as a whole, looking in on the way it should be.
I miss it so much sometimes that it physically hurts. Sometimes, when I close my eyes and breathe in deep, I can still smell the scent of fertilizer, stockyards, and Alpo dog food being cooked. It may not appeal to all, but it's managed to leave an Iowa-sized hole in my heart.
