November

This is November.

The snow flakes fall and melt into streams of ice. The skies try to bring us Winter, but the wind still blows warm. It will conquer soon, but until then the clouds drift overhead in vain. It may seem that all is dying. But even the ice is teeming with life.

This is November.

Thanksgiving break week has arrived. The students fly home on wings of metal and iron, glad for the break from their school. For a week, no more early mornings for Latin class. For a week, no more making coffee in the dark hours each day. For a week, no more sitting in classroom chairs trying to focus. For a week, no more late nights trying to finish those last few pages for History class. For a week.

This is November.

I am in possession of two rooms and four beds. A wave of loneliness washes over me for an instant, like Adam Young's Tidalwave. I push it back out, and stick a yellow flower in my hair. More color, I can't get enough. Black and while stripes are my sweater, and orange wraps itself around my neck. I am eclectic. I always was.

This is November.

Once upon a December, the snow will fall and stay. Pearls falling from the sky, I stand on the sidewalk and close my eyes and let it in. Cold invisible magic. It sparkles and shines, but you cannot see it. You can hear it, but only if you try. The crunch of ice, the wind in my hair, at the point where the moon reaches the horizon. This is the magic of Winter, silent and cold. It heralds the oncoming of Christmas. Twelve days of celebration, spanning the gateway to the new year. December will come and go, and January follows at his heels. For Winter comes.

But this is November.