Some small secrets

September and the teasing of cold

The unfiltered sunset from my apartment in Ottawa.

Do you remember when we would slip each other notes during class? I would rip out the corners of the thin paper in my spiral notebooks, scribble some small secret. I would fold it, first in half, then in half again. Precise and careful, the kind of girl I was. I would slide the tip of my thumbnail along the folded edge, like a seal, as if to sharpen the secret inside. I would pass them to some friend or crush and I would wait for a smile or a smirk or a note in return.

Every year, as the school year came to a close, the cardboard covers of my notebooks would be frayed at the edges and the margins would be busy with signature practice and, without fail, the bottom corners of nearly every page would be missing. Like childhood had taken a bite out of my belongings. 

Those little notes we shared, touching small fingers as they passed between us? The crispness and the tenderness of them? They have the same flavour as September, don’t they? The same urge to inch closer to one another for warmth.

The same need to get out of our own small worlds and touch hands with someone who will touch back. 

Recently, I was having a difficult phone call. They were on speaker and the phone was balanced on my knee. As I started to cry and they started to reply, the conversation not getting easier, I looked out the big window of my new apartment to see fireworks, just beyond the empty lot. Bright and boisterous and perfectly visible from my seat on the couch. It was the middle of August but it’s felt like September since then. 

These strange moments, these ones with tears and fireworks, when life feels both stupid and funny, this is what autumn feels like. Warm soup and a sharp breeze. Huddling closer and growing apart. Knit scarf and cold toes. Learning that home is a person you’re in love with and saying goodbye at the train station, already missing their smell. That beautiful and brutal, soft and sharp, together. This the secret of September. 

I think about how cold has a different taste to each of us. For some, winter is little more than sunset at 4pm and a bone chill. For others, it’s all softness and wonder. But everyone seems to love autumn, don’t they? Everyone’s favourite season. I’m not sure this has much to do with pumpkins and chocolate melting into milk, but everything to do with the way September teases at cold, the way it flirtatiously bites our exposed arms and keeps us in the warm corridors for a minute longer, touching shoulders, holding eyes. That’s what I think of in September. 

The move went well. The work is fulfilling. The mornings grow chillier every day and I feel a kind of loneliness I wasn’t expecting. It’s like opening your mouth to tell someone something, only to find they’re not there. I feel dumb for moving away from my world for even a year, for having everything I wanted and not being there to hold it. August ended and then, a wet start to September. The season turned and the loneliness pinched harder, digging in its heels.

But then, other, softer truths: that visits are that much sweeter, that moments together feel sharper, that I am indescribably lucky to miss so much. That soon this season will turn to the next and this chapter will become another. That I am lonely now but it will be okay. This is the secret of September. It’s cold but it’s also alright.

This afternoon, I’m on my usual walk back to the apartment from work. Like every day, I cut through the back of the courthouse, a dark building with dark windows, and walk along a red brick path that runs along the side of the building. I’ve never looked into the windows before today. Usually, I walk this path unthinkingly, often thinking about another evening in the apartment with just myself, puttering around, all my people elsewhere. Today, the light catches the glass and tricks me into looking.

There are offices inside, but in the window is also me, reflected back. She’s a little sad looking, behind the eyes, but you’d only know if you knew her. Mostly she looks like she’s trying her best, bag on shoulder, hair pulled back. I look for a moment longer and she smiles and I think how proud I am of her, for being a bit cold but also alright.

In every letter, I’ll answer a question asked by anyone. The question could be about anything. The answer will always be honest. 

“Don’t be sorry.”

I’ve done some little thing, listen to a rant or send someone a coffee or be with someone as they cry, and this person is apologizing! For what? Inconveniencing me? It’s so silly. What are you sorry for? Existing? Leaning on me? Isn’t that the whole point of this little life on this little speck in the big James Webb picture?

If you look up the word “favour”, it will say “an act of kindness beyond what is due or usual.” The whole point of doing someone a favour rests on going out of your way, walking just outside the beaten path and into the weeds, to some extent.

It’s not even really a really a favour when you care about someone, is it? It’s just a side effect of loving. No one ever said about loving someone, man, what a big favour I’m doing by loving them. And if someone ever did say that, wow, what a loser.

Which is to say, you’ve never thought someone you care about should be sorry for existing as they are — for crying when asked if they’re okay, laughing with their outside voice, talking excitedly about that movie they saw or idea they had. Especially for reaching out when they want you there, holding space with them.

This isn’t advice I’ve absorbed just yet. These days, I’ve reached out a lot to friends and loved ones, so I can assuage some loneliness and be more intentional about socializing when I need to. But I feel sorry for being a bother, even though every time someone reaches out to me when they’re just a bit lonely, my heart balloons. I apologize for taking up that space. It comes out so naturally that I barely notice it. Sorry. Even though I’d say to a friend, in a heartbeat, there’s nothing about being loved to be sorry for.

Burnt Sugar by Avni Doshi