letter to october

Dear October,

I have been waiting for you. You have been acting a bit strange, however; stuck, it seems, between embracing me or storming off, leaving a humid trail of anger in your wake. I thought we reconciled my affection for April. You know that you are my favorite with your orange hues and rich yellows. You are an artist's dream, October, but a fickle lover.

You've always brought such wonder to me. I remember how the nights in Alabama would be almost suddenly cool and I would still be wearing a t-shirts, and jeans and flip-flops. The first shiver of Fall seemed full of possibilities, of campfires and marshmallows, of football games and Halloween parties. You create that potential every year. And yet, October you signal endings: no more Saturday barbecues, no more sleeping without covers or with the windows open. You are a transition, October and I have loved you because you are complex and unapologetic. There is a defiance I admire in you, one that I envy. But your changing nature makes it difficult for me to feel secure in our mutual affection.

Darling October, of pumpkins and cider, of frights and of romance, I have longed to confess how I miss you. You remind me of something, each year, something intangible, brewing just beneath the surface. You are a surprise, October, every single time we meet. I'm glad you're around for the next 23 days or so.