November never meant much to me before last year.
Shorter days, sure. Knit sweaters and a holiday or two.
But last November brought beginning to an end we didn't see coming.
A reminder that goodbyes are never guaranteed.
Last sentences aren’t always the final word on a relationship.
And holy moments exist in the darkest of places.

November never meant much to me before last year.
The night we knew you were leaving, I bought a holiday cactus
with small pink blooms from a misty shopside on my walk home.
Its blooms came back last week, brave in their abundance.
It’ll celebrate a year alive soon.
Your newest great-grand will celebrate seven months.

November never meant much to me before last year.
Each month since has brought joy
and loss and wonder that still feels shared.
The rains are coming back this week.
The mists returning and you, having never truly left,
give this November a chance to mean much and more again.