November reminds me not to make an enemy of time. Nothing quite remarkable happens. When I was a child, it felt like a suspension between the scuttle of Halloween and the flurry of Christmas – but at 35? As the shops rush through seasonal displays, one after another at a desperate pace, I welcome this month like a cup of sweet milk tea. Sipping slow, this year I’m trying to remember: the dying seasons, the people that matter, and the stories I carry.
In all this, time is a friend, gently knocking. I look for her in that rainy day that strips the last leaves from the trees; in the nippy morning when breathing reveals its ghosts; and in the first snowfall. The waiting is delightful.
