November’s Tale


The air is reverent here. Peace married with sorrow and bone.

The snow crunches beneath my boots, announcing each step I takes towards you… the only sound that dares shatter the eerie quiet of your resting place.

Even the sounds of the city beyond these gates, keep their distance. As though they know better than to disturb. As if in respect.

I do not know what called me to your grave this evening. All I know is, when dusk began to settle all cold and heavy with coming winter, I couldn’t think of another place I wanted to be.

I’ve never ventured here alone.

So, why this moment?

Why such urgency?

Perhaps to recollect your words.

Perhaps because the cold has always suited my spirit best when restlessness threatens.

Perhaps to be reminded that in the silence, truth and courage and revelation lie in wait.

Perhaps only to remember that I am not alone.

Chelsey Whitlow

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