november 1st

calendar letter #1

I’m thinking of writing month poems again, maybe not for any particular audience, but letters written from where I was sitting, what I was thinking, or what I was excited about when I welcomed a new month in. twelve time capsules, not for the delight in poetry, but a conversation to myself in how we’re doing. a solo yearbook photo. a calendar of little scratches in the door frame, measuring where I stand.

maybe, if you don’t mind, I could start it here.

hey, you. 

it’s November 1st. the window is open several inches to the cold. Portland drinks in the sky’s tall glass of rain for however long it’ll pour it. it took several rounds of shampoo to wash all the Halloween blue hair spray from my scalp. I’m wearing a sweater a friend from work sent me. the $6 stale cupcake-scented candle flickers. the heating pad and I are made bedfellows once again. last night, I barely slept because I couldn’t stop waking giddily every time I noticed my knees didn’t ache. my grandfather read my writing piece on estrangement and said he was proud of me. I’ve started putting stickers I’ve saved onto things and for some reason, it seems like a bigger lesson on impermanence. I’m falling asleep to rewatches of The Good Place. I’m reading All About Love and highlighting every other page. when I can eat, it’s a lot of over-easy eggs with pesto. 

I’m thinking about how this is the first year that age has weighed heavily on me. days pass and I watch my dog’s sweet face turn snowy. my simple injuries take twice as much rest to feel recovered from. it’s not gray hair or falling out of touch that scares me. I refuse to be any less alive. winter is on its way and I think I can be brave. I’m excited about the celebrations, the conversations I might have in these next weeks. bundling up in layers for a late-night drink under dim patio lights with coworkers. every jazz record dusted and waiting for a turn to spin softly in the living room. a chilly early birthday retreat to the beach for my best friend. a dinner party with a new friend I hope to grow close to. a dream of pecan pie. red wine and easy laughter while the pots simmer. letting the nights lapse while curled up and watching the rain alone in bed. longer chats about love lives and how “home” might wear a new address next year. I enjoy the days I let myself be quiet. I’m learning I love to deep clean. I miss snow. 

from this little dark blue corner of the city, I’m wishing you well, wherever we might be. I hope you’re taking long walks again. I hope there are plenty of chairs at the table. 

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck