It’s that most wickedly wistful of months, the one you step into only to find yourself knee deep in some sort of nostalgia or yearning—maybe for something you used to have; maybe for something you’ve yet to have.
It’s the month in these parts when you’re reminded what orange and blue can be together, and something akin to belief tells you they were meant to be.
It’s the month I had to drop my outdoor wedding into.
But the O of October—and so much of October here is oh, oh, oh—the O of October is like the low branch of a tree begging you to climb into it. If your legs and arms can vault and steady you into position, you can swing one leg over, steady yourself. You can lean back into O’s curve for a seasonal spoon. Surely, once balanced, I will dangle one leg off the side and set it swinging. Maybe I’ll remember to wear a straw hat and bring a piece of wheat to chew on. Together O and I will become a 19th-century decorative initial, a delicious drop cap.