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  • Writer's pictureErin Clark

Genuine Warmth

My hair has turned the colour of dying oak leaves. My roots are growing in princess Anna white. I am the cusp of a season, the wrong princess, this is not how november goes.

usually this is the ugliest ontario month.

Before we’re used to winter’s sudden nights, November is usually like: wan afternoon light trying hard to make a grey sky appetizing. Then, fuck! it’s midnight! Except it’s only 6pm but it’s freezing rain and all the way dark and you’re shivering on a sidewalk wondering how you got outside. It’s meant to be wet and cold and dark and not yet charming. Not yet glistening like December. So what is this! This day which *is* glistening. It’s 20 degrees and glowing. Its smells like woodsmoke and genuine warmth and like everything is ok. It’s charming the pants off me and it’s November.

Weird things happen to me in November, a lot of anniversaries haunt me this month. I got divorced and fell in love and learned to fly in various Novembers. I had a glass of wine on a terrace and now there is a time delay on my reflexes, a second of time added to my original seconds. And I go to the park, where my hair colour is draining like the moulding leaves and I unzip my jumpsuit until under-breast shadow appears and take selfies like I am myself, a second self added to my original self. The self contained and the self learning new ways to feel free and not really committed to my studies. My iconic jaw line in the sunset and please don’t make me go inside.

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