A Farewell to October

I miss you already.

Your crisp autumn leaves crunching beneath my feet; the smell of cinnamon and apple, pumpkin spice and the like. Come back to me. Come and sit beside me and we’ll read scary stories, frighten ourselves until we refuse to turn another page, and require a silly movie to lighten the mood, that or a trip to the cemetery. Let us stroll through that drifting fog again.

“Here,” I’ll say, as I point beside the wrought iron gate.

“Really?” You’ll ask.

“Really.”

“Why so close?”

“I thought it would be easier—easier on everyone. And I couldn’t think of a decent enough place to do it. But here, here seemed convenient.”

“Your death, convenient?” You’ll say, allowing a smirk to curl up your lip. “Nothing is.”

I’ll nod, looking over where I saw myself collapsing onto the ground. A silence passing between us.

You’ll place your cold hand onto my shoulder, so that within me stirs the wind that blows through the trees, so that the magic of your season moves within me in the same way, and I feel better.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here to see the rest of it through. I’m glad you’re here to see me off.”

And I’ll turn towards you, tears brimming. “You’re leaving? Already?”

“Yes, but I’ll return again—sooner than you think.”

“You always leave too soon,” I’ll mumble.

“You almost did too,” you’ll say, in that way only you can, so that though I feel sadness, there is a dark joy in it, a humor that only we share. And once more, I feel better.

“Farewell,” you say, granting a faint wave as you step towards the fog. “And do try to take better care of yourself.”

“I will,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I am.”

“Farewell.”

“Farewell, October.”

And I watch you vanish into fog, and the trees’ leaves around tumble and fall away, and the magic that you bring dissipates, so that I’m left with only the faintest memory of it—enough to cherish for another year.

Farewell, October.

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