A woman walked into the office looking for help. She’s new to the area and living off food stamps –  doesn’t know anyone or where to turn. As I helped her with resources, she stopped me, touched my arm – said I spoke softly with her, made her feel calm. She liked that.  

An embankment separates the highway. It dips then rises about fifteen feet. I can’t remember if the pickup was upside down or on its side, hanging from the guardrail. It had climbed the hill and gotten stuck – never launching into oncoming traffic (winter weather conditions). Passing the wreck, we drove cautiously.

These clouds are not yesterday’s clouds. The air’s a little cooler. Stained shingles on the neighbor’s roof weather one day closer to being replaced. The new shoots on the aloe plant are a little taller too. How many November days pass like this – similar but slightly different?  How many Novembers go unnoticed?

One snowflake, then another, floats down like the last leaf from a tree. A long pause, a third – eventually a fourth. There’s a shyness in beginnings, unsure of where to start or how. The way we might look at each other after a long absence, a near remembering of how this goes.

Through the screen door I hear the heat pump hum. In the distance, a single crow caws her four-crow beat. There are clouds, lots of clouds… and the day is already layered in mottled and flannel grays. The dog, tangled around a deck post, whines to come in. Yes, this is November.   

The morning rain falls heavier than a pitter patter. The outside colors washed over in gunmetal suggest a second cup of coffee and the dim glow of a table lamp. The day says curl up, sit a while, listen as the storm churns through. The dog buries his nose in a blanket.

This spiral staircase only goes down – a candle dark labyrinth tucked away from the light and the morning blue. There’s a lot of talking. It’s mostly my voice that I hear. I make several cases – mentally game planning a series of conversations. Winding my way down, moments pass, sun-kissed walks go unnoticed.

The morning minutes slip. I watch the sunlight creep across the frosted lawn. There’s traffic on the main road, fast, not heavy. The autumn trees stretch varicose and naked – so thin. Only the pines stand like bushy sentinels in this arctic blue. It’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time.