I’m not sure what to call you—are we lovers? Friends?
You have always meant much more to me than I have dared to admit. You hold me in your arms as I grieve all that came before you and you fondle the sadness that has gathered beneath my skin. You know just where to press, what to say, what still aches, and what has finally begun to mend.
My fondest memory of you is when you held me by the window as we watched your sister, October, fade away. I cried, and you remained silent. Sometimes, your silence deafens me; other times, it consoles me.
You hold my hand as we stare at my river of tears, gathering old bricks from the past to pave the way forward. We toss stones into the river, and I think to myself—you are my closest friend, November.
You are never harsh to me, yet, you make me feel everything all at once. It’s as if you whisper, ‘It’s almost over,’ and we can always begin again. I know those will always be your words when you come around.
But how I wish you would scream at me for wasting away! How I wish you would ridicule me for failing to try! Your tenderness is so raw, so visceral...
You stand in the rain and smile at me, picking flowers that bloom from the old bed of thorns. November, how I wish you would ruin me—turn away, leave me behind, run far from me. Your kindness feels like mockery.
You carry the weight of the year past, yet it doesn’t harden you; it softens you. November, you should be disappointed in me… but still, here you are.
Until we find ourselves in another season, I carry you with me.
Goodbye, November.
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