October falls away from summer’s sunlight, reaching out like a woman on a bus, reaching to touch her lover one last time. He gazes at her, eyes radiant with love and the promise he’ll return, but for all the reach, she is lonelier than if he’d walked away, back turned, never to look back.
Even though November kicks out daylight savings and the earth’s tilt welcomes long nights, November tumbles into community like people gathering around the grieving, quietly reminding us that our beloved dead are close by, separated by nothing more than a sheer curtain.
The second Tuesday we blacken circles like we did in school, noting the men and women we’d like to see in office. (We chatted with neighbors saying, “Never before have we stood in line like this year.”)
On November 11, we celebrate our veterans who sacrifice life, limb and sanity to protect that right to vote and to speak freely. We lay hands on our hearts and flowers on graves, another community of the dead and the living.
November ends with a feast. We give thanks, swap stories about the good things, the difficult things. We light candles against the dark, add the delight of Christmas trees. We wait. We shop. We hope for peace on earth, good will toward men.
Yes, November tumbles into community and this November the Andraskis will welcome a puppy, who might just bring a glimpse of sunrise and a bit of joy and mostly chaos.
I’m Katie Andraski and that’s my perspective.
