At Sea in October

I equally love and hate October. Love the color of the trees, the cool crispness of the air, the way a soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders can make you feel so warm. I love coming home, pulling into the driveway with a soft sigh, and relaxing for a moment behind the wheel, before getting out and walking the short distance back to the road to fetch the mail. And as I walk back, I like the sound that my feet make as they rustle through brittle Autumn leaves, the satisfying crunch as they break beneath my heels. And I love stepping up onto the porch, keys in hand, stopping for a moment to chat hello to Sheila before unlocking my own door to escape inside. And inside, the comfort of home, familiar furniture and familiar furry faces to say hello to, as I drop my purse on the table beside the door, kick off my shoes, and toss my keys in the corner of the bottom stair. Because the best thing about October for me, is the ritual of coming home.

But at the same time, October haunts me. Stirring in me a familiar restlessness, disturbing my sleep, invading my dreams and each day is punctuated by an overabundance of thoughts. Things I'd rather not think about, but cannot clear from my mind. And every year it is the same. The same build up, cresting like a wave, rising like a crescendo, a world of dissonant notes played in sharp staccato, like harp strings plucking at my soul. And I am at odds. Odds with myself, and with years that have gone by, melting away one by one. Hallow and cold, I inhabit this shell. Stopped for a moment in rewind, and replayed, waiting for November to fast forward.