It’s the start of fall here in Richmond. The leaves are starting their slow change, one by one, like little embers glowing in the trees. The air feels crisp and cooler now, sharp in the lungs, almost sweet. Even my dog loves it—this is when we get in at least eight thousand steps a day. It keeps us both healthy, sure, but more than that, it clears the cobwebs out of my head.
On those walks, sometimes I call friends or family, sometimes I plug into whatever audiobook is keeping me company. But most of the time, I just let the quiet fill in the spaces. Autumn is the season when nostalgia finds me. It pulls me back to days that can’t be stolen, days that belong to me no matter what happened after. For now, at least. Maybe age will steal them someday, but not yet.
And when the colors turn and the cool winds roll in, I remember England. Where my heart lies. Where my soul lives. I remember the very first day I stepped into that country. I was young, overwhelmed by the sights and the history that seemed to breathe all around me. I felt like I belonged from that very first rain-soaked ride to a little village in Bedfordshire.
That village was something out of a storybook. I thought it was magical. Everyone was so nice, smiles everywhere. Cynicism hadn’t made it there yet—or maybe I was just too young, too awestruck to see it. I was properly in love with England. I remember those little bus rides we took into St. Albans for groceries. You’d get on the bus, and everyone greeted you as though you were already part of their day. When someone got off, they always thanked Dave—the driver. Funny thing about England: every bus driver seemed to be called Dave or Davey.
Sometimes, Davey would stop the bus at the end of a street and turn around to us all: “We’ll just wait a moment for Doris.” Every village had a Doris, too. And sure enough, a few minutes later, a sweet old lady would appear, walking slowly but steadily, climbing aboard with her smile, as though she brought a little sunshine tucked in her handbag. Even on the gloomiest, rainiest, snowiest day, Doris made the bus brighter.
Later on, we moved south to another little village—Liphook, in Hampshire. Another magical place. From there, Salisbury, Winchester, and Arundel were just an hour’s drive away. The village was old, cobblestones underfoot in places, and history at every turn. Peter the Great and his entourage even stopped there once on their way to Portsmouth to learn shipbuilding. Even the old train station seemed to whisper to you—leave the car, hop aboard, watch the South Downs roll by. In summer, those hills turned yellow or purple, depending on which flowers had claimed them that year. It was like living in a postcard.
Not long after we arrived in England, just a few years in, we happily decided to become British citizens. I was so young then, but I can still remember the excitement I felt. The ceremony took place in a 12th-century chapel in the little town of Alton. It was solemn, but also cheerful in its own quiet way. There were only two other people besides us.
In England, you pledge allegiance to Queen Elizabeth II, and you repeat “Long live the Queen” three times. I remember saying those words and feeling like a knight, sworn into something bigger than myself. At the end, the official looked at us and said, “You are now a royal subject to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.” Hearing those words, I almost cried tears of joy.
I was proud— to be British, a British immigrant. Because as every immigrant knows, you choose. You choose to be part of that country, that society. You’re not just born with it, not pushed into it by circumstance. You choose it. And in making that choice, you take on the responsibility to respect it, to love it, and to protect its culture.
Some people choose to become immigrants for different reasons—some through marriage, some for freedom, some for safety, some for jobs. But no matter the reason, respect for your adopted country isn’t just a duty. It’s an act of gratitude, an expression of love.
That’s all I’ll say about that.
Our first home was a small apartment, but eventually we bought a little three-bedroom house. Now, a three-bedroom in England isn’t the same as in America. My girlfriend’s walk-in closet today is bigger than one of those bedrooms. But that house was wonderful. Warm. Beautiful. Full of love. It’s where my kids grew up, where my mother often came to visit.
Close my eyes, and I can still see every corner: the flowers out front, the brambles just beyond the backyard fence where the kids picked blackberries, rinsed them off, and ate them while watching reruns of Friends. I can almost hear the little footsteps racing down the hall, the laughter, the arguments. I’d give anything to have those days back.
Now, I’m back here in the United States. My home and proud to be an American. I love this country, its history, its values. But a big part of my heart will always belong to England.
And maybe that’s what fall really is—nature’s way of reminding us of where we’ve been, the places and moments that live inside us forever, no matter where we stand.
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A Kings 
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