I’m writing these words mid-afternoon on the second Tuesday of November. We turned the clock back a few days ago. The light doesn’t match the hour. Not yet.
My daughter is at play rehearsal, my son is upstairs playing his bass. I can hear his foot tapping on the floor, keeping the beat. The dog is stretched out at my feet, she stirs and stretches and groans when my chair creaks as I try to roll it towards the desk with a shift of my rear. The office is empty, save for the two of us. My husband is out of town for work this week - a rare occasion. I can count the times he’s traveled into the office since we moved here on one hand.
There’s a quiet about this afternoon. The windows are shut, but it’s still too warm for the heat to turn on. Still too warm to light a fire. I might though, just to hear the crackling of the wood fill the empty spaces.
It’s still early enough in the month to call it early November. We’ve had unseasonably warm weather up until this morning - up until the lunar eclipse. It’s not just the light and hours that don’t match, it’s been the calendar and the temperatures.
{the photo above was taken a week ago during a brief cold snap before the warmth}
Just a few years ago it snowed on my son’s birthday, the 15th of November. We were in Boston for a show. It had just started flurrying when we went into the theater, but when we came out a few hours later the air smelled of winter, and there were snow squalls where there had previously been cyclones of leaves tearing down the city streets. We drove home, and the whites of my husband’s knuckles shone under highway lights as he gripped the wheel. My son’s face was bright with excitement. Once we got home we put on our hats and mittens and went outside for a birthday snowball fight.
More and more it feels like the calendar means little in terms of weather. It holds the dates we hold precious, boxes to check off to-do lists, but there’s little promise of continuity in terms of seasonal shifts. Sometimes I wonder what that’s doing to our bodies. What the changing shifts are doing to our hearts.
My tea was hot when I sat down to write, but it’s gone cold now. Words have come and gone, some stayed, some drifted as the steam wafted from my mug. It’s nearly time to pick up my daughter, my son’s foot is no longer keeping the beat. The sun has shifted, evermore. I might sit here for a while, I’d hate to disturb a sleeping dog. I’ve got a few more words longing to be spilled, but those might not be ready for public consumption. Though really, how does one ever really know when the words, when they, when the world, is ready? Is it a rumble in the heart, a longing in the throat, or maybe it’s a quiet inner nod?
Yes, it affirms.
It’s when the hour matches the light…