November

When I came home and took off my sweatshirt, I noticed that I smelled distinctly of two things. Grease and cigarettes. Two comforting things. I knew it would be important to find something comforting after my unsettling evening; I hate coming home and regretting where I've been and what I've said. I tried hard to see past my mood, to deny the things bubbling out of me, but it wasn't with much success. Today just wasn't a good day. It's been a while since I've had a good day. It's November.

I have no idea how I'm going to stomach even the idea of tomorrow, even the idea of a family holiday. Every year I seem to get a little more disconnected, a little more unaffected. I wish I knew how many more years it was going to take before going home from work for a holiday weekend doesn't make me cry. I wish I knew how much longer it is going to take before I adjust to being alone on the days no one should.

There aren't words for how it feels to have no one to spend holidays with. So I have to take comfort in the familiar. In the feel of the cool winter air on my bare skin. In the sound of the traffic far away on a clear night. In the sight of the stars, shining with glimmers of hope. In the smells on my clothes, the smells of things that taste good and calm my soul. The peace is found there, in the tiny things found by my senses, and for that I am thankful. After all, it is the day to be thankful, right?