The Last Room

Come in.

October is still warm enough
to leave the windows cracked,
cold enough to pull a blanket
over your feet.

There are leaves on the sidewalk,
orange lights in windows,
plastic skeletons waving
from somebody’s porch.

The air smells like smoke
and wet pavement.

Stay awhile.

There is cider in the kitchen.
A pumpkin softening on the steps.
Children arguing over costumes
they will wear exactly once.

At night,
the wind pushes dead leaves
along the street
like something hurrying past.

I used to think
that was the sound of October.

Now I know better.

Listen closely.

Under the leaves,
beneath the wind,
past the laughter of children
running house to house

there are bells.

Faint at first.

They start in the stores,
somewhere behind the clearance aisle,
while the plastic skeletons
are still hanging from their hooks.

Red ribbon creeps in beside
the orange and black.

A tree appears overnight.

Then another.

October begins disappearing
before it is even over.

Everyone else seems excited.

They tell me
Christmas is coming
as if I haven't noticed.

As if I cannot already feel it
waiting at the end of the month.

So I walk slower.

I take the long way home.

I stop beneath trees
that have almost nothing left
and watch the last leaves
hold on.

I understand them.

There is a door
at the end of October.

Everyone I know
is rushing toward it.

They talk about lights,
music,
family,
home.

I know what waits
on the other side.

Empty chairs.

Names I don't say.

Traditions belonging
to people who aren't here
to keep them.

The annual requirement
to be merry.

So come in.

Wipe your feet.

Take off your coat.

Ignore the bells.

October isn't scary.

October is the last room
where no one has asked me
to be happy yet.

And I am not ready
to leave.