november arrives slowly, lazily. november brings along the last of the year’s showers, she stirs grey into crimson evening skies and burns petrichor in the air, basks in the splendor of lightning and thundersong.

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she was cloaked in a veil of crystal raindrops when i first met her.

our eyes had locked together in that crowded hallway of time, fleetingly, and she’d smiled at me from behind her hand before getting lost in the whirlwind of the party again.

we didn’t meet again until much later. a chance encounter at a library and she’d irrevocably drawn me in; her voice rich and soft as she spoke about the books she chose and placed into my hands while i walked alongside. it was warm whenever her fingers brushed against mine, but the smile she gave me when we parted later, my bag full of books she’d picked (for you, she’d said), was even warmer.

october was waiting for me that day, hunched over the table with a puzzle, sighing as she tried to arrange the pieces in places that fit. she’d given me a tired, loving grin when i came home; then told me over a bowl of soup, a little sadly and with a firm squeeze of my shoulders, that her time was going to be over soon.

a few days later, something that passed like the blink of an eye, and october was gone.

her traces still lingered. the completed puzzle framed on the wall and the calm weather she’d crafted, among other things, outlived her transience.

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november comes in on padded feet, quiet and soft, singing hymns of rain. the clouds, enchanted, bump into each other and weep, overwhelmed by the sudden shock. she giggles as she soothes them, running gentle hands through their fluff and streaking faint rainbows in the sky.

her eyes crinkle in warm recognition when she sees me. “hello,” she greets like an old friend would, “hello, it’s lovely to meet you again.”

her long hair is braided with thick stems, a few black strands slipping out and framing her face along with the blossoms from the vines. and her eyes—her eyes are beautiful pools of shimmering black and gold, wise and gentle, so kind. she’s seen more than i could ever imagine, but age has made her it’s lover; has settled upon her as gently as an early morning kiss.

she’s in a saree the shade of pure copper and the silken shawl on her shoulders is the colour of wet earth. i can see the patterns of the universe dotted into the colours of her clothes, the stars in the silver of her earrings.

she is beautiful.

she looks like a mother.

i nod at her. “it is nice to meet you too. i’ve been wanting to meet you for a while” i confess, and i’m overcome with a sudden shyness. i can feel the innocent heat on my cheeks.

she laughs, and it’s such a delicate little thing.

“i’ll bring us some tea” she says before vanishing into the depths of the house, taking her warmth with her. i feel a shiver pass down my spine, the autumnal chill finally settling in.

she comes back with tea in earthen cups and sets them down, the cold subsiding. the dark liquid mirror reflects the depths of her eyes and through the floating tendrils of steam, she looks like someone, something stolen from a dream, a little hazy and tender around the edges; the illusion only broken by the clinking of her bangles when she moves.

we drink together at the table of the moon, and i watch the shadows her eyelashes play upon her cheeks in the glow. even in her ethereal beauty, november is familiar, a comforting presence. she brings peace. in the momentary glint of her eyes, i see parts of me—or rather, parts i believe i’d like to see in myself.

she looks up, and our eyes meet. she smiles from behind her cup and i feel something ache in the hollows of my chest. a faint throbbing, a butterfly’s wingbeat, something too precious to name.

“be kind to my heart” i ask, a silent request i do not voice.

she smiles then, and something flashes in her eyes again, mischievous yet kind; almost knowing. 

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