Echoes of November

By Matthew Parra

WE HUDDLED CLOSE. The world around us settled into a serene quietness as if nature itself held its breath, and the November air seemed to shimmer with a faint promise of comfort. The freshly bought flowers juxtaposed and laid gently beside dried stems, their colors vivid against the faded gray of the aged tombstone, solely lit by the gentle yellow glow of a wax candle.

The tombstone stood as a quiet witness of our presence, time-worn, a window to the past that anchored us to the memories of a life with a cherished soul and without. It bore the name, not just of a loved one, but the weight of our collective memories, while the surrounding graves silently echoed stories of their own and countless others who had come before.

It's that time of year again when the streets' iridescence glows brighter than before, and the waves of change and remembrance perform a subtle dance overhead. Lengthy school breaks and a sense of nostalgia fill the air, heavy with anticipation for December and a yearning for the months that blur into the year.

There's a certain quietness found in the fleeting days of October. The year's end arrives on tiptoe, and in these quiet November evenings, the world seems to be on the cusp of transformation. The sky becomes a canvas of muted purples and grays, and the caressing sun gently traces the creases on our faces.

A hushed whisper of what was and what is to be envelopes this time of year.

Why are we so fervently defined by the people we've loved and lost?

How do I make it through a world so much bigger than me?

The onset of colder days mirrors the callous ebb and flow of living, where the changes we experience echo our need to make way for what will be. As the nights grow longer and the days grow colder, November serves as a gentle reminder that the world, like our lives, is achingly and beautifully fleeting.