OCTOBER ESSAY

A mere trifle, you say, three means nothing in the wonderful world of authors. You’ve already seen the message on the laptop screen. The third publisher, the third rejection. You kiss the hollow of my palm and place the tin mug in front of me, steam rising from the tea.

At forty-eight, I squint at the university’s Blackboard page for my course on the psychology of creativity. All my previous courses were credited—this is my second degree, after all—but not this one.

To write an essay. I could write an October essay. Foliage, fireplaces, pumpkin spice. Or, better yet, I could map my inner geography, capturing the slow, necessary shedding that trees do without regret. I am going to build a reflective crescendo—after all, this is about the psychology of creativity. To get top marks, I will dwell on this transition nature captures so well through the „withered leaves”—useless attachments that I myself keep.

I should start, so I don’t forget my thoughts. The cursor hovers over the message that still glows: “…but we genuinely believe that your book will find the right home.”

Then I will shift the reflection from the outside to the intimate space of the home and the mind. Finally, the grand finale where I realize that happiness does not have to be loud to be real.

“Update and restart: keep your laptop on, this could take a few minutes.” I stay until the tea cools completely and a thin film forms over the top.

Yet this October is not like last year’s, when the wind beat against the windows, my mother was dying, and days felt shorter. Now the lines around my eyes are deeper, and a smile finds my mouth less and less often. Not like twelve years ago, when our daughter was born, also in October, and all our pieces fell into place as naturally as the pieces of the crib you assembled in just four hours. A mere trifle, you said back then too—four hours mean nothing in the new world of parenthood.

I can’t help but smile because I know what’s coming when you put the record on.

“Will you dance with me?” I hear your voice in my ear, mixed with Ben Webster’s whispering saxophone.

“I’ll always dance with you.”

She squeezes her way between us: “I want to dance with Daddy too.” You gently guide her into a slow spin, only to pull her right back into your arms. You keep her hand in yours and we watch her hesitate, miss a step, then laugh.

I begin another piece of writing. An October essay quite different from the ones Cornell University assigned to some of its students two years ago. You lean over my shoulder and read the first line—“Will you dance with me?” he asked her—then turn your head toward her door. That growl I know too well escapes your chest.

Yeah, John, it’s no mere trifle now. That’s how long seven hours can last.