“I hate October.”
And … there it is. The wilt on our rose. The dent in our bumper. The zit on the nose. The spinach in the teeth. The crack in the wall. The ball of fire between our shoulder blades.
The skeleton in the closet.
I am, admittedly, a little edgier at certain points in the month. Blame it on the lunar cycle, blame it on the changing seasons, blame it on estrogen. But there’s one month where irrational and emotional aren’t just mood changing. October irritatingly offers all of the spooks and specters we’ve had to exorcize.
We are happy, well adjusted and after six very long years, finally and definitively putting the first words down in our next chapter. But October always does its best to freeze our gentle thaw and it is Halloween that drives the dagger through.
For 24 days, we seem to slide from happy to down to sangry (def: a finely cultivated blend of sad and angry that has slowly fermented). And then the day passes, lifted away into the breeze the way the balloons float into the clouds chasing after him.
Discounting the first two – which shall stand alone and unmatched in their cruelty – October is now simply a month we wish we could petition to have removed from the annual calendar. But it’s here to stay and so is the baggage it has left us.
“I know, lovely boy. I don’t like October either.”
He’s almost my height now and his hands have eclipsed my own, but looking down at him in his cocoon of blankets he looks small again. The waver in his voice matches the tears that have gathered and I feel that familiar pang of helplessness and frustration that I cannot right the wrong. He is his mother’s son and he fights to keep the pain at bay, refusing to let it win. But tonight he is the little boy whose heart I broke and fought to mend and the tears fall as he disappears into my arms.
“I love you, buddy.”
"I love you more."