The stigma of Novembers

 

It’s November again

the windows cold on both their ends

the fireworks cruelly bright in the dark night

your hands absent.

Steps cross cobbled streets in a hurry

leaving behind nothing but the sound of their echo

the same echo that puts you to sleep

or that wakes you up in the early morning hours

as a handful only of cars can be seen passing by the bridge

and suddenly you wonder what the river hides beneath that bridge

as dreams slowly take over again.

Phone calls arrive from Georgia

never communicating good or at least comforting news

and in response you always say you will go for a walk in the woods

but you never do.

The limited presence of sunlight is welcome

because this means you can spend more time observing the lights on the bridge

the ones standing and the ones moving

from afar

without thinking.

There’s something so distasteful about Novembers

the way they signal endings

without really ever delivering one

uncertain of themselves as it appears

of their position and purpose in the year.

Sometimes the wind clashes violently against the door

or the bricks of the house

and we all briefly believe some desperate visitor needs assistance

but running to the entrance there’s no one again

no human presence

just the ghostly echo of what has already passed.

7 November 2020,

Athens.

Photograph: Guy Fawkes night; 5 November 2016, Dundee.