Kerry Says

November is a hell of a month.

The days darken and we actively make them darker. The weather turns cold, but no snow falls to dazzle or calm us. Our only celebration is one that forces reflection on the human cost of war.

It makes life seem harder to live somehow. Not that it takes the will to live from you (that’s February’s privilege) only the desire to live actively.

In November it seems a burden to get up in the morning, an affront to have to put those pants on one leg at a time. You lose the desire to filter your thoughts before saying them aloud, to stop at the grocery store to nourish yourself, to stir the milk into your coffee.

November is all apathy and resignation and stuffy noses and offense. It’s chilly fingers and dusty corners and library fines and backaches. It’s chapped heels and ruddy cheeks and brittle finger nails and tell-tale roots. It’s insomnia and scratchy tights and pitch black supper hours and self pity.

And, mercifully, it is almost over.

I wrote something about Burton Cummings on the train the other day, but have yet to get my act together to type in here.

So instead I’ll type a little something from Sir Winston Churchill:

“Remember gentlemen, we are not just fighting for France, but Champagne!”