October Suggests a Walk
It doesn't matter where to
Your eyes open slowly in the still dark room. Out beyond the curtainless window, you can barely make out the colorless outline of the treed horizon. The steady branches tell you there is no active wind this morning. Nothing at all bothering their fine, needled limbs. For the first time in many months, you get out of bed well before sunrise, noting it will be another hour before the day’s light turns the canopy green again.
Your first two shots of espresso ignite enough cognitive fire to reach ‘Amazing’ at Spelling Bee. But now you are stumped, and there’s no pangram anywhere in your line of sight. It’s clear you will need a second round of caffeine to become a Genius today.
While pouring the frothed milk, you hear a stirring from the guest suite. Is someone here? In the house? You don’t think so. You freeze any movement in order to listen for it again, but there is no repeat so you don’t bother to investigate. Walking back to the living room, the sun’s prelude begins to seep through the windows. The tonality of the color strikes you instantly. This range of light is so different than a week ago. The white walls now glow as if they held a beating, amber heart inside them.
On the sofa, you resume your quest for Genius-ness when you detect a smell of cinnamon and nutmeg in the room. That’s when you see her. October, walking slowly, elegantly, through the house. Her tall, Rubenesque figure moves so stealthily, the sleeping dog doesn’t register her presence.
You’re not sure if October has seen you, so you wait for her to finish brewing her coffee. As she makes her way toward you, strands of her strawberry blond hair catch the rising sun, lighting up as if they were adorned with strings of gold sparklers.
-There you are! October beams when she sees you. I hope I didn’t wake you.
You tell her you’ve been awake for almost an hour already.
-I let myself in last night. It was quite late or I would have said hello.
You tell her not to worry. October asks how you are. She seeks a genuine reply. You know this about her—October doesn’t appreciate the customary pat answers. You struggle to formulate an honest answer, and while you fumble around arbitrary introductory phrases, she says nothing. October waits for you to speak, her wide eyes green as the cedar boughs, peering out from her round, freckled face. She is so breathtaking, you don’t want to answer for fear she will look away. After a few minutes she places her hand on your knee, her long fingers perfectly formed. Piano hands, your mother would call them.
-My Dear, it’s OK, she says.
October suggests a walk. It doesn’t matter where to, as long as she can feel the freshly churned air. She puts on her full-length coat, crafted from a color so resplendent you don’t even know what it could possibly be named.
You walk for hours, telling stories, and at times, saying nothing. October laughs at your little witticisms whether they deserve a chuckle or not. Her giggle comes with a wide and free smile, displaying unquestionably crooked teeth. On anyone else such a mishap of enamel wouldn’t make any sense, but on October, it somehow makes her all the more charming.
Over the coming days, she makes herself at home: re-levels the hanging pictures, shims any table with uneven legs; sharpens all the pencils, replaces burnt-out lightbulbs, and ensures every clock is accurately set. And only then, after she’s taken care of all those imbalances and malfunctions, does she begin the work she came here to do. She does not ask your permission, but you wouldn’t want her to. October has arrived to reform and relight your every view.
Her artistic vision is clear and elaborate, so you forgive what a mess she can make in the midst of her process. The scattered oregano now resting deep in the crevices of the stove are forgotten as soon as you taste the soup she has made for you. In the unkempt garden, she forages and digs and cuts away the nonsense, leaving piles and piles in her wake. But she returns with a bevy of produce, herbs and flowers you didn’t even know you had.
Each morning, October rushes out, taking up where she left off the day before. She repaints the leaves, plumps the huckleberries, pulls up the mushroom tops, taking special care with the extra tiny ones. She works steadily until dusk, almost to the point of exhaustion. You tell her to give herself a break, but she won’t hear of it. It’s not quite right yet, she tells you. Her unwavering ambition to make everything more beautiful is astounding. Her long-term vision is so inspiring that you forgive her for leaving her dirty socks on the floor every morning.
As the weeks go on, October’s calm demeanor sways more often toward a state of mild agitation. When it happens you can sense her mood darkening like the smell of burnt toast in the air. As her once dimpled and easy manner turns sour and hard, October takes to breaking limbs and stirring seas; thickening clouds, and drenching the silty earth. It surprises you, these quick shifts of expression.
When she rebalances, her toothy grin reappears, and you ask what you have done to make her angry. Did she take insult when you mentioned she left the jam knife on the counter? No. She’s not mad at you. She’s striving for something specific, something grand. October won’t settle for mediocrity; she won’t let herself let anyone down. Her perfectionism breaks your heart just a little.
One morning you wake to find she has rearranged your living room. You figure it out when, in the dark, you almost sit on the end table which is now where your sofa used to be. You survey the new configuration. October joins you, just as you finish scanning the room. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask if you mind or how you like it. Honestly, you’re not too sure about it. October intuits your sustained hesitation to acknowledge…anything.
-You’ll get used to it. I promise.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
October winks at you. Her deep brown eyes sparkle, even in the dark. You swear her eyes were green a few weeks ago. She gets up, announces that she’s going to make you her very favorite pasta today. You thank her, as you search for where she might have moved the coasters.
It will be a very long time before you understand what October has given you; what she gave up so you could have all the things she wanted you to have; all the things you didn’t even know you needed.
Thank you for reading,
{|AC
I think it is brilliant that October is an artist. Well done Ace.
Month after month, Angela, your guests delight my heart!