Nothing about November

is predictable.

Though the weather in Colorado makes every effort to prepare us, the first snowfall still startles me like the surreal arrival of a milestone birthday, here too soon and yet inevitable.

Mist crawls over the mountains silently, holding hands with the melancholic memories that summer relieved me of for a time.

Despair lies like lead in my stomach, dragging down my heart, and anchoring me to the helplessness I cannot ignore.

I can’t halt winter’s darkness, can’t change the fact that I have not prepared. I now must face the consequence. I step through the door onto the gray sidewalk—a chalky smudge stretched flat beside the charcoal street. Outside, a high-rise angles upwards, a brushstroke of somber gray slashing across an ashen sky.

I wander down one street and up another, slowly surrendering to the chill. My breath escapes in tiny swirling clouds, before dissolving into the misty air.

And then,

night folds gently over the mounds of snow that blanketed the day, and the streetlights flicker to life. Suddenly, in place of a once-oppressive foe, the sky transforms into a canvas of sparkling magic, my heart is lifted in hope, and I am smiling.

I stand on the empty sidewalk, face raised to the cotton candy sky. Snowflakes fall steadily, cling to my lashes and I blink faster. The longer I stare, the more they seem to swirl, appear to float up and away from me. Entranced, I remain motionless, bare hands shoved into my coat pockets. Thin streams of water trickle off my face, and down my neck as the beautiful crystal patterns melt into their native substance on my warm skin.

These are the moments we miss. These quiet moments that no one marks as meaningful, and yet in this singular sliver of time, I find my peace. This simple — nothing of a moment — resurrects me, and when I finally resume my solitary evening walk, I stamp boldly down the center of the slushy street.

November has nothing on me.