November 2023

We’ll make it through November. We shake on it. The girl holds the handle of the front door like it’s the first and last time. It’s a grip that shakes the certainty out of you. 

It’s the after time, now. Time for sweeping up the leaves. Beating down the carpets. Washing the dishes after the party. Mopping the floor beneath the pipes that are barely holding on. 

The girl talks about a preparation. For a holy baby. For many babies. Not ours. Not yet. But out there in the world—there are more coming. And the coming, the preparation, there are words for it. Advent. Excitement. Anticipation. Hope. Watch. Wait.

I don’t know what to call those things that stay. The dry brown leaves that stay til March to see the entrance of the new buds while they make a quiet, hasty exit. 

Are you tired of me writing to you about the leaves yet? I could tell you more about the girl, her guests, the parade of love they stumble through—they are not good dancers, but. They move. 

You’d like the look of me today, apart from all the mess (but really I don’t go for a peek at your organs and chide you for being out of order). My windows are clean. Both sides. Even the third story. It only took her two years to sort it out. 

It was the girl (part tipsy) and myself (looking lovely, but muddy) and a rag (from the basket in the kitchen) and elbow grease. She pulled me to pieces and scrubbed me clean. You wouldn’t believe the light. But you’d have to. They can’t fake sunlight like that. 

I wonder if there are other stars somewhere, with little rocks running around their ankles, trying to get all their attention because they’re sure, sure as I am now, that there’s never been light like this soft-clear-gold-glimmer stuff coming through a window they were sure wasn’t that dusty before. 

That’s stuff worth staying for. The winter leaves have the right of it maybe. I’ve been here a hundred years and it’s not enough. If I only had one, I’d wait. I’d stay. I’d turn off the music after the party and wash the dishes. Sweep the porch. Pull in the chairs. Put out the fire. 

I’d eat leftovers. 

Because this light. 

Look. 

I’m running around her ankles.

I’m sure, 

the apple house