The middle of November. That’s how I like to remember you. I think of you as the middle of November: Cold, with red hair like falling leafs and blue eyes like the sky looks when my eyes water from the wind and my small hands would go numb. Something changed. You were no longer the November mornings I’d spend high as a kite contemplating where I’d be three years from then, hopeful and star struck. You were June. Too warm. You were the June afternoons I’d spend going from high to low, my arms burning in the beating sun waiting for a small, black pickup truck that never would come. You were gazebos with peeled back mesh walls, letting bugs crawl across my bare skin until I thought I’d have to peel that back, too. You were cigarette butts put out in old cans of Diet Coke, mason jars full of expired whipped cream, fireplaces with no purpose.