My youngest and I were sharing a treat yesterday. A milkshake for him and a latte for me. I miss summer already, I said. And he scolded me.

Mom, if you’d filled your summer with summer things you would be ready for winter and winter things. I think you are just missing the things you didn’t do in the summer. You didn’t have enough picnics.

Oh my. A scolding from a ten-year-old.

And now, November. And I’ve entered it a little unwillingly, a little fearful, a little timid. A little sad, even. Missing the early sunrise and the morning birds and the green. Dreading, perhaps, the white.

But the ten-year-old scolding is ringing in my ears. I must not miss November. I must fill November with November things. With the putting to bed of summer, the waning of autumn, the Remembrance. And the looking toward the white. And the rest, the quiet, the peace it offers.

If I accept it.

If I don’t miss it.

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