October Creepin' In

October is a cold month here in the valley between volcanoes. The vicious bite of winter teases my nose and whips me with the threat of icicles. It is a month that forces the darkness of death on my complacent mindset. Even if death is not present, it will emerge, and the things that were dying, will come to their ends in this month. October is a shitty month, and it is all right to say it. Too often people sugar coat what is innately terrible. Even the act of putting on masks and pretending is a deceitful act, and we make light of it because it is the only time of year that people can really admit that they are not what they seem. Every other day of the year, they have to hide that they are hiding. October is a freezing month in the clamor of silence. The sounds that were new just a couple months ago repeat themselves, and the cycle of silenced voices, limp hugs, hard eyes, ice pick refusals ring absently in the rustle of the fall leaves. 

    I try desperately to create warmth. I bake and bake and give and give to try to fill the swirling October emptiness that is encompassing me, and then those bony fingers poke me and remind me that coconut cookies can’t hold the warmth. Banana chocolate chip bread can’t salvage the lost parts that October so proudly broadcasts. The humiliation of standing amidst glaciers while covered in flour becomes a comedy and a routine act. How do I find a mask for that part? I guess you can just look at my face. 

    Oh, October, your two vacant “O’s”--I will wear them as glasses, and search for the parts as did Frankenstein, unbury them, and sew together all the pieces that have detached themselves: a fragment of the heart, a dulled eye, an arm with clenched fist dangling at the end, a leg scraped and bruised, and all the other scattered remains. After I have created my masterpiece, I will still think October has fucked me over, because now, I have to put the warmth back in, and below freezing nights, ethereal ghosts floating above my head, and pumpkin spice only moan and creak discontent. October, you force me dig even deeper, as if finding the body parts wasn’t enough. I have to dig to the friggin’ core of my planet and retrieve forgiveness, kindness, beauty, humility, and love (which none can be seen, so I have to grasp for invisible entities), and I will; I will do the filthy, laborious work because I certainly do not plan on reliving this asshole of a month every day of my life.

    October is a relentlessly frigid month, but I will stand sweat covered, jubilant in my excavation, warmed in the satisfaction that I have done everything to battle October’s nonchalant attitude about death. I will passionately look at the landscape of loss, and walk through it(albeit ungracefully) with all my mended parts, and all my invisible treasures.

    October, I still say fuck you; the only good thing about your stubborn, impassive nature is that it reminds me of my strength (and my mom’s birthday).