November is confusing with its hunched back and nostalgic gaze. Made to feel like the year’s old age, the grandma of the months. It carries this burden like a thick, coarse shawl that keeps the cold inside instead of protecting against it.
It’s a dark, hazy tunnel of yearning through which we climb towards December, the month of light and merry feeling for the year passed. Somebody lied to November, calling it the end of the year, but for me, the year doesn’t end until March. Until then, I’m enveloped in the same shawl.
Today, a red glow paints the stone, and the shadows dance in the rhythm of wind and flame. In the photo, they still smile.
Destellan el cielo y ahora los celebro.
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