I've not cared much for December for many years now. Adulthood came, and confiscated the magic of Christmas. I guess I never really minded, as I've always felt I have something much more magical. But still, I look around at the colorful lights and smiling characters adorning the lawns now, where the skeletons and pumpkins and ghosts stood not long ago at all, and I feel resentment. Society forgets that November is still, very much, autumn. The world forgets to hold space for the remaining pumpkins and scarecrows, anymore. But I watch for them. I've learned to treat November like an extension of October. A funeral, of sorts. I celebrate the fact that it happened, and search for the remnants around me. This year, though, it hasn't been easy. October, for the most part, felt like an extension of summer. Halloween came with a high of 83 degrees and blazing sun, as if October itself wanted to wear a costume that made it almost unrecognizable. It felt more...