November is the color of the fallen maple leaves that blanket our backyard right now, waiting to be raked and used for mulch in the garden, and the Carrot Ginger Soup I made last week.
It is the color of the beard my father grew every year for hunting season, and the Hereford cattle that he raised.
It is the color of the light coming through a church window, somewhere in the Seattle area in November in 1959, when my parents were married. She was nineteen, and he only a little bit older -the age of my own children now.
The color of November will always be the color his beard was, twenty-five years later and twenty-six years ago, the night they celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary -their children young adults, as mine are just now becoming- with a houseful of friends and family, and elk hunting early the next morning.