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by
Beth Brower
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October 9 - October 16, 2021
My feelings for October are fierce: a sharp love of cool air, a season transforming the landscape towards, and through, death. I’ve always loved it.
It is an impossible thing, to be proud of one’s messy grief. Reason is taken captive, as all bad manners are thrown forward.
“Of course I’m coming with you. Don’t be daft. My friends do not go to war alone.”
It was then I thought that life—my life, in particular—wasn’t wholly worth giving up on yet.
Yet here I was, determined to fight in the shade.
