This one is for you, November.
Dear November,
You’ve taught me one of the most important things I know. You see, I used to hate you when I was younger. I hated that you were my birthday month, and that I was your child. My body was controlled by this constant impatience, and though I loved to celebrate everyone else’s birthday, waiting for my own was unbearable. When the big day finally arrived it was fun until midnight. No more cake, you guys. The party was over.
You were cold, dark and annoying. That was until the moment I realised that if I was born earlier, it wouldn’t have been me who was born. I’ve loved you ever since, and still do.
I love your colours. The colours that are more red than my hair. My hair, which becomes even more red this time of year, while my skin becomes more pale and my freckles start to fade. The freckles on my upper lip that looks like leftover chocolate never disappear, though, but I’ve grown to like them, just like I’ve grown to like my pale skin.
Dear November,
You’ve taught me one of the most important things I know. You see, I used to hate you when I was younger. I hated that you were my birthday month, and that I was your child. My body was controlled by this constant impatience, and though I loved to celebrate everyone else’s birthday, waiting for my own was unbearable. When the big day finally arrived it was fun until midnight. No more cake, you guys. The party was over.
You were cold, dark and annoying. That was until the moment I realised that if I was born earlier, it wouldn’t have been me who was born. I’ve loved you ever since, and still do.
I love your colours. The colours that are more red than my hair. My hair, which becomes even more red this time of year, while my skin becomes more pale and my freckles start to fade. The freckles on my upper lip that looks like leftover chocolate never disappear, though, but I’ve grown to like them, just like I’ve grown to like my pale skin.
I love your smell. The crispy smell of cold asphalt and wet leaves. The asphalt I’m walking on whether I’m on my way somewhere or just walking without a specific destination in mind. The leaves that fall from the trees so that we can wade in it now that the ocean is too cold to do so.
I love that you’re cold. Cold enough to wear scarves, but warm enough to still wear a pair of Vans. Cold enough for a hot shower to feel like the meaning of life, but warm enough to not freeze to death if you have to wait a five extra minutes for the bus.
I love your darkness. The dark I once was so afraid of. I used to be afraid of everything. Now I’m not anymore, and find your darkness both mysterious and beautiful. It fascinates me how you can go from light to dark by the time I’ve gone from Chalk Farm to Old Street with the tube. And you look the most beautiful when the street lights and the slightly premature Christmas decorations light you up.
I love that you’re cold. Cold enough to wear scarves, but warm enough to still wear a pair of Vans. Cold enough for a hot shower to feel like the meaning of life, but warm enough to not freeze to death if you have to wait a five extra minutes for the bus.
I love your darkness. The dark I once was so afraid of. I used to be afraid of everything. Now I’m not anymore, and find your darkness both mysterious and beautiful. It fascinates me how you can go from light to dark by the time I’ve gone from Chalk Farm to Old Street with the tube. And you look the most beautiful when the street lights and the slightly premature Christmas decorations light you up.
I love the expectations you hold. The feeling of another year coming towards an end, and that you have to make the most of it while you still can. That it slowly becomes socially acceptable to play Last Christmas while sliding around the living room floor wearing home-knitted socks, thinking you’re as talented as George Michael. If not forever, then at least for 4 minutes and 26 seconds.
I love your sound. The sound of raindrops hitting the windowpane alongside Justin Vernon’s voice on the first Bon Iver record. The record you play while drinking your third cup of peppermint tea.
November, I think you’re beautiful. So beautiful that I had to reach out my arm and feel you on the inside of my palm on your first day.
And that’s what I love the most - that you’re mine.
I love your sound. The sound of raindrops hitting the windowpane alongside Justin Vernon’s voice on the first Bon Iver record. The record you play while drinking your third cup of peppermint tea.
November, I think you’re beautiful. So beautiful that I had to reach out my arm and feel you on the inside of my palm on your first day.
And that’s what I love the most - that you’re mine.