dear october.

the one we will look back on and remember how full and round and rosy baby's cheeks were, like harvest moons, like deep autumn apples -- how dearly he loved his tiny white pumpkin and the mainardi sisters -- how we met mornings over heaping bowls of cream of wheat in the still-dark nursery, the crown of pooling salted butter slingshotting me back in time to the house on sorrento drive (how warm a memory can keep you) -- how we met twilights on floor of the nursery, making music of bells, building worlds of blocks, listening for papa's keys in the door. the october of all my octobers.