November

There was a roaring in the wind all night
The rain came heavily and fell in floods

It's November now, and the sun goes down before dinner. There are damp leaves blowing through the back yard, and we need to remember to close the curtains and fasten the windows at night. The grass is stiff with frost in the morning, and in the evening it smells wet with decay and darkness.

Little boys get sick with croupy coughs and wake in the middle of cold nights. There foreheads burn and they lay under blankets with bottles of old water and salt crackers in plastic dishes.

In the evenings, I still sit in a black suit on a dazzling-lit stage, looking up at splendid boxes of people towering overhead as hundreds of different sound-colors buzz above me and the the orchestra tunes up. The ride home will be warm, a car full of merry young friends bundled in coats

But when I step outside into the dark street again it will be November. I find some pleasure and comfort in the chill and the darkness. It's good to be reminded of your own mortality--how life is dangerous and the weather can be wild. It's good to see your baby's fever break and to watch them get better. It's good to get under heavy blankets with a warm wife when it's cold and dark out, and to know that the roaring wind can't reach inside your walls.

A cup of hot coffee, a child on your lap, sturdy windows, and a bowl of hot soup never mean so much as when the real world has reminded you that it isn't a tame lion.