Everyone has a favourite time of the year,
For me it's November.
People shopping for woollens,
Autumn preparing resolutely for death.
Misty mornings, hazy afternoons, smoky nights.
That time of the year when you can leave your hair loose and let it cascade down your back and shoulders-
like a glorious, uneven black shawl.
When you can snuggle in bed with your dog, nuzzling in the soft, warm space behind your ear.
That time of the year when you miss him the most and search for starry patterns of his face in the night sky.
Christmas-time is close at hand and so is his birthday.
He was to be twenty-two this year.
(Oh crap! Focus dude! This was to be a happy, descriptive entry about the month I love, not the people!)
That time of the year when the walls you build around your heart are brought down brick by brick,
For a little Autumn-cleaning.
Before your build it up again to fortify against the chilling blast of Winter.
November is the time to listen to your favourite rock-band and pray for cold rain.
November is a time for love, for a little flame,
Ignited in the furthermost room of your blackened heart,
Where you don't have to be afraid of the soot-stains.
November is 27 days left and counting.
Disappearing like the rustling brown leaves on dry, flaky branches
and twigs that crack with a fatal groan beneath your approaching step.
But what I love about November the most -
What makes it so special to me -
Is it returning to me after it dies yearly.
Enmeshing me in a unique cycle of loss and victory,
Pain and patience and joy-
Unparalleled by any other thing or person I have had the fortune of loving dearly.
For me it's November.
People shopping for woollens,
Autumn preparing resolutely for death.
Misty mornings, hazy afternoons, smoky nights.
That time of the year when you can leave your hair loose and let it cascade down your back and shoulders-
like a glorious, uneven black shawl.
When you can snuggle in bed with your dog, nuzzling in the soft, warm space behind your ear.
That time of the year when you miss him the most and search for starry patterns of his face in the night sky.
Christmas-time is close at hand and so is his birthday.
He was to be twenty-two this year.
(Oh crap! Focus dude! This was to be a happy, descriptive entry about the month I love, not the people!)
That time of the year when the walls you build around your heart are brought down brick by brick,
For a little Autumn-cleaning.
Before your build it up again to fortify against the chilling blast of Winter.
November is the time to listen to your favourite rock-band and pray for cold rain.
November is a time for love, for a little flame,
Ignited in the furthermost room of your blackened heart,
Where you don't have to be afraid of the soot-stains.
November is 27 days left and counting.
Disappearing like the rustling brown leaves on dry, flaky branches
and twigs that crack with a fatal groan beneath your approaching step.
But what I love about November the most -
What makes it so special to me -
Is it returning to me after it dies yearly.
Enmeshing me in a unique cycle of loss and victory,
Pain and patience and joy-
Unparalleled by any other thing or person I have had the fortune of loving dearly.
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