October

October, we begin again at the cottage door, the latch cold under our fingers as the dawn cracks open like a mussel shell, grey and pearled. We walk into the town that sleeps still, past the gardens where hydrangeas hang their heads, brown-paper petals curled like burnt edges of letters we never sent. The air smells of woodsmoke and the sea’s low exhalation. A dog barks once, far off, a sound swallowed by the fog that licks the cobblestones. We move through streets narrow as veins, past the harbour where boats tilt on the mud, their reflections broken by the incoming tide. Each step is a word we cannot say, a name we will not speak. October, you are the keeper of these silences.

October, the gulls cry like hinges as we climb the hill, their wings white against the bruised sky. Below us, the town unfolds its rumpled roofs, its chimney pots breathing thin streams of smoke into the morning. We pass the graveyard where stones lean like bad teeth, names weathered to ghosts. A single crow perches on a lichened cross, watching us with one black eye. We do not stop. The path winds upward, bordered by brambles heavy with berries dark as old blood. Our boots crush the fallen leaves, releasing their scent of damp earth and decay. The wind picks up, carrying the salt sting of the sea. It is the same wind that carried him away, October, the same wind that sings in the wires overhead, a low thrumming like the sound of a heart breaking.

October, at the cliff’s edge we stand, the grass brittle under our feet. The sea stretches to the horizon, a sheet of hammered pewter. Waves fold and unfold against the rocks below, their crash a muffled drum. We remember the last time we stood here, the press of his hand in ours, the warmth of his body against the wind. Now there is only the cold, the vast emptiness. A lone fishing boat bobs in the distance, small as a discarded toy. We imagine the men on board, their hands red with cold, their faces turned to the shore. They do not see us, October, standing here with our grief like a stone in our pocket. The light begins to fail, the sun sinking into the sea, bleeding orange and red across the water. The air tastes of salt and endings. We close our eyes, and for a moment we feel him beside us, the ghost of his breath on our cheek. Then the wind snatches him away, and we are alone again, October, always alone.

October, we walk back as the dusk gathers, the path a grey ribbon under our feet. The town lights flicker on, yellow and small as fireflies. We pass the pub, its windows fogged with warmth and voices. The smell of beer and fried food hangs in the air, a reminder of life going on without us. We do not go in. Our cottage waits at the end of the lane, its windows dark. The key turns in the lock with a sound like a sigh. Inside, the fire is dead in the grate, the room cold. We light the lamp, its flame casting long shadows on the walls. The silence presses in, thick as wool. We sit in the armchair by the window, watching the night deepen. The sea is a black void beyond the cliffs, the only sound the wind in the eaves. We think of the day, the long walk, the ache in our bones. We think of him, always him. October, you hold us in your chill embrace, and we do not struggle. The grief is a familiar weight, a stone we carry in our chest. We will carry it until the end of days, October, until the sea claims us too.

October, the last poem is always the hardest. We sit at the table, the lamp’s circle of light small on the page. The words come slow, like blood from a wound. We write of the town, the sea, the cliffs. We write of the dog that barked, the crow on the cross, the boat on the horizon. We write of him, his absence a shape in the air. The pen scratches, a dry sound in the silence. The ink bleeds into the paper, blue as a vein. When we finish, we lay down the pen, our hand stiff with cold. The page is full, the words a map of our sorrow. We fold it once, twice, and tuck it into the drawer with the others. The drawer is full now, October, full of our grief. We wonder who will read them, when we are gone. We wonder if they will understand. The clock on the mantel ticks, measuring the seconds of our solitude. The fire is dead, the lamp guttering. We rise, our bones creaking, and climb the stairs to bed. The sheets are cold, the pillow empty beside us. We lie in the dark, listening to the wind and the sea. We close our eyes, and for a moment we see him, smiling in the sunlight of a long-ago October. Then the vision fades, and there is only the dark, and the sound of our own breathing, and the knowledge that we will wake to another day without him. October, you are a cruel month, but you are ours, and we will walk your paths until we can walk no more.