DIMINUENDO November November pulls me down Like a diminuendo in music gradually dying away Darkness falls too early and the chill creeps in Before dusk before we learn the truth about my brother this day plays out like any ordinary day a symphony of sameness Just the way I like it At 2 46 in the afternoon I duck out the main doors of Margaret Murie Middle School frowning as I avoid the straggly line of kids waiting for buses Glad I’m not in that line today Emma waves Bye Maddie I wave back with a grin 1
Fridays mean oboe lessons Gripping my instrument case and hunching my shoulders against the cold I walk four blocks west to my music teacher’s house I love walking If I lived in the city instead of boring old Bennett Corners I’d walk everywhere Especially the Kimmel Center for concerts But I’m only twelve It’ll be years before I can move to Philadelphia As I walk up Mr Rimondi’s driveway I count my steps Eleven An odd number is not a good number Something will go wrong I could add an extra step a tiny one but that would be cheating Dread fills my chest like cold sludge This will not be a good lesson Crushed leaves rotting against the stoop smell like the turkey feather I use to clean the saliva 2
from my oboe especially when too much spit clots the feathery tips together into a sodden lump The leaves smell of mold and sadness and leftover rain They smell of November My Real Name You’re late Mr Rimondi says But he smiles his crooked smile so I know he’s only kidding I glance at the big clock on the wall above the music stand with the red second hand sweeping past the two and smile back If I can make him laugh maybe it will still be a good lesson Twelve seconds Not that late He throws his head back and laughs a bright brassy sound like trumpets Madrigal you could be a metronome 3
