Things I Do Not Say Out Loud

November arrived properly today. Not through weather exactly. Through silence. Even Milan sounded quieter this morning, like the city itself understood it was Ognissanti and should lower its voice slightly out of respect for the dead, or memory, or Catholic guilt. Probably all three. Mom was already dressed perfectly before noon even though we weren’t going anywhere important. Cream sweater, dark trousers, gold earrings she designed herself years ago and never sells to clients because apparently some beautiful things remain private.

The apartment smelled like coffee and Allure.

There’s something strange about elegant women on empty holidays. They move through quiet rooms differently. Slower maybe. More visible. We had lunch almost silently while rain kept touching the windows softly without fully becoming a storm. Mam hates loud weather. She says true elegance never announces itself violently. Meanwhile Dad would probably open every window during a thunderstorm and smoke through the apocalypse. Families are strange collections of contradictions that somehow continue existing anyway.

This afternoon I reorganized school papers for no reason except November creates guilt automatically. October still allows distraction. November expects discipline. Outside… People carried flowers through wet streets toward cemeteries. I watched them from the living room windows and suddenly remembered how small I was the first time I understood adults could disappear permanently. Nobody prepares children correctly for that realization.

Not really.

At one point Mom put on old Beatles records while sketching jewelry designs at the dining table and for a few minutes the apartment felt suspended outside time completely. Grey sky. Warm lamps. Perfume. Music. Pencil against paper. Beautiful things always make me slightly sad afterward.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because they never stay exactly the same once you notice them properly.

ALL SAINTS.
Remember me,
Eclipse