November Story

The morning rain was weak. We walked through it as if it were rain forest mist, and if it weren’t for the bitter chill that ran down my arms, I’d feel like running, leaping and twirling through it all. Instead we just walked.

I kept my hands in my pockets, clutching my keyring. I let my fingers run over the ring I keep attached there. She kept her arms across herself, looking so cold. I searched for the courage to reach and touch her arm, but found none. We walked further.

“Tell me,” I started slowly as we passed under a low-hanging tree that cast speckled shadows on the sidewalk.

“Tell you what?” she said. As she turned her face, her soft hair fell across her face. And I searched for the courage to reach and brush it away from her eyes, but found none. And so I spoke.

“It’s just –,” I paused as a couple walked by us, arms around one another and soft loving laughter floating to the clouds, “I had this dream. You know, and you were in it.”

She laughed a little, and that smile of hers met my eyes and how perfect would it have been if the sun had come out right then.

“Yeah. And it was just a short dream. A little one. I’m not even sure why I remember it.” I was focused on her eyes until an uneven sidewalk square caught my toe and I stumbled forward, barely catching myself. Her hands were on my arm. She laughed softly and asked if I was okay.

“But I do,” I said — “I do remember it.”

Her hand was still on my arm, as we stopped. I didn’t realize we were on the bridge until that moment. Underneath us were cold brown traintracks, but if you didn’t look, you could pretend there was a river.

“What was the dream?” she asked.

“It’s kind of silly,” I said with a little smile. I hoped she couldn’t feel my heartbeat. I hoped she’d never let go of my arm.

“Silly things are my absolute favourite,” she said to me, and of course I knew.

“I asked you, in the dream, to tell me about the things you love. And that was pretty much it. We were walking, just like this, and I asked you — and it took me a while before I figured out why.”

She looked bemused. A car passed us, and the headlights lit us up.

“It’s November, you know, it’s such a cold and distant month, and, well, it’s hard. I know I find it hard, and maybe what we need to do to help us through is to just sit and think about the things we have that we love.”

She smiled again, and her cheeks were red from the cold. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, “except that that’s very sweet.”

“It’s just something, I guess,” and we both turned at the exact same moment to look over the side of the bridge.

“So what is it that you love?” she asked me, as I listened to her breathing from beside her. “What do you have?”

I paused and thought about it. In the corner of my eyes, I could see the way her hands touched the guard rail on the bridge, and her soft smooth nails. I searched for the courage to reach out and take her hand, but found none. And so I answered.

“I love this river below us,” I said, “with its clear water and small little fishes that swim in it. I love the way it freezes in the winter and how the children sled down its banks. It’s my favourite thing to do — to come down here and watch it.”

She laughed again, and I had to look at her face. She peered over the side and looked at what was — the old wooden train tracks. “You’re kinda weird,” she said with a giggle.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, smiling along with her. A cool breeze struck us both, and her hair tangled over her eyes. She shivered and I died a little. “Let’s go someplace warmer,” I said quietly.

She nodded without speaking, and we moved again. As we began the walk home, I looked once more down the side of the bridge, and wished so much for something that was not there.