The Smell of November Rain

I knew I'd eventually write this story. I knew as October was nearing its middle and the leaves were so vibrant and life felt as it should be, I knew I'd get to this point. I didn't realize how soon or how strong the smell or the sense until something tragic occurred in October that made it abundantly clear that not only would I write this story, I would feel every word of it because I can smell the November rain.


I was just a child when I fell in love with Guns' N' Roses ballad, "November Rain," but it took me years later to identify with it, for it to bring me to tears. I hate November. I hide that sensation with shopping lists and decorations and time consuming fun, but I truly despise November. It smells bitter and damp and the trees begin to look deadened and empty and I usually feel that way too. And that feeling deepens until Christmas and then I eventually return to the wonder that I am, the epitome of eccentricities and energetic contradictions.


On one cold November day, I was so jubilant and ecstatic at life's greatest joys, I had forgotten it was November and I'd forgotten what day it was, the anniversary of the day my life was left desolate, detached and I never felt so alone. And then I discovered blood and I had never been so frightened and I pleaded to every deity known to man to pick any other day, any other time and I'd accept its choice, but not that day. And maybe my pleading and prayers were answered because it actually chose no day at all, but I was still in a ball in my bedroom, afraid to move, afraid of what could happen.


The last few years, November has not been the same. I've been fortunate that November has just been a month on the calendar and the rain is just rain. I've had an amazing amount of marvels in my life, especially in the form of renewed life. A decade passed and I was barely aware. But this year, this decade and one year later, I feel an urge to reflect. I owe a lot of that to what I saw in October. I'm not angry though or regretful because that fateful day from long ago lead me to the course I am on now, perhaps in a winding and weaving without-a-map kind of way, but it lead me here nonetheless and I am a lucky woman.


Of course, I'll never forget the little girl at seventeen and how angry she was. And I'll never forget how blind sighted she was by what life threw at her, the hard ball it was, right in the upper jaw, ricocheting to hit her chest, bruising her heart as brutally as it ever could. And what started out as a normal day took a hard turn and became what she learned to be a November day, a day she would eternally dread on the calendar. A decade and one year later, it is still not just a day. My heart still tries to retreat into isolation every now and then and I still feel frigid and embittered occasionally throughout the month. I must stress, that day is still not just any day. It still smells. It still smells like November rain. Please don't ask me to describe it any further to you because honestly, you don't want to know. But life smells sweeter in comparison to it, and that makes all the difference.