It Is Just November 1st

November 1st.

And my spirit starts whispering louder than the wind

Something in the air shifts

Like time itself catching its breath

Before it exhales into December

My thoughts turn inward

On high alert

Scanning through the pages of this year

Like a woman searching for her name in a story

She swore she’d finish writing

Resolutions, half-folded like laundry

Still waiting to be put away

Dreams deferred

But not forgotten

They hum beneath the weight of what’s been left undone

And yet,

I don’t feel failure.

Just awareness.

That sacred, uneasy knowing

That I still have time

To become, to rise, to return

To the woman I promised myself I’d be

When January was young.

So I light a candle.

Say a prayer.

And whisper to the reflection staring back at me:

We’re not done yet.

The story ain’t over.

It’s just November 1st.