November and December
Brandon Cook
I.
Rigid as everything became later, there was still a suppleness, even in the last months of the year
Like a clandestine meeting or a lifting of the veil, there was a secret in the new light through now-bare branches
and light itself seemed to come through and hold me
in the early morning or late afternoon—dust motes, orange in the light
and the yellow-sky days of November and December were, despite the cold, comforting
You could see further into the woods behind our house—all had become bramble
and somehow that space created hope
Everything—all earth—was awash in promise
II.
I watched my parents fight in the rearview mirror, standing behind our car,
my siblings and I in our seats,
saying nothing as we waited to leave for Jackson, for Thanksgiving
And then, looking up into the mirror, I felt the cold stab of something pass between them;
I watched the body language change
My mother ran inside, and we sat another hour before they came back
my mother’s cheeks still red, but a smile on her face
“Sorry for the delay, all ready?” she asked
I nodded, and soon we were on our way
That same cold, like cobalt, passed always between us, despite the smiles in our family photos
Like a snake, something unspoken, something that terrified us
It glided and struck like sudden darkness
F-bombs dropped, though the word was forbidden
Arguments through muffled doors still overheard
III.
One Christmas Eve, my dad threw open the door and slammed it shut as we watched It’s a Wonderful Life,
and my brother leaned over and whispered, “God bless us, everyone”
And still, some angel in November and December seemed to whisper, like a living lullaby, that all would be well
That there is brightness on this earth to be trusted
That the leaves now fallen would fill the forest and restore something
deep beneath our feet