Of Cinnamon-sweet Anticipation: The Irony

 The first of November for me is always a day that smells of warmth, of cinnamon-sweet anticipation for Christmas, of calm gratitude for making it far into the year. One day I’ve made a habit of humming Mariah Carey under my breath while scrolling through new months messages and smiling at how everyone seems hopeful again, as if new months come with invisible wings that lift us above life’s heaviness. But today feels different. Today, those wings feel broken. I woke up to voices, loud voices instead of prayers, at least. I woke up to solid threats, not even a little bit of gratitude. My parents, after thirty years of weaving a life together, a life I thought was beautiful are threatening to unravel it all. I sat up in bed, frozen as I listened to their words slice through the air like something that can’t be undone. But there’s an irony to this. The spark that started this fire was so small, almost laughably trivial if you ask me, it could have died with a sigh or a quiet apology. But my dad, my somewhat calm, joke-cracking dad, decided to fuel it. And now, what should have been just a random argument easily resolved is feeling like a breaking point. Could it be old age eating at his brain? My dad is about 56, that’s not too old. Sighs. When things like this hit a family where the children are kinda grown, people often say things like “but you’re grown now, you’ll be fine,” forgetting that adulthood doesn’t make you immune to heartbreaks that don’t belong to you. Children, no matter how grown, still bleed quietly when their parents fall apart. Divorce doesn’t just split a marriage, it divides memories. It rearranges the definition of home. It makes you question whether the laughter that once filled the house was real or rehearsed.  And what’s worse is that it’s coming after thirty years. After several birthdays and graduations, after storms and dreams built together. I actually thought by now the love should have been solid, that forgiveness should come easier with age but here they are, two people who taught me love, now struggling to remember what it even looks like. Well, it’s November but it doesn’t feel like a beginning. It feels like an ending I never saw coming. Asides allat, I think I’m still grateful. Gratitude can exist even in the ache of things crashing down right? I’ll still make a toast though. A toast to holding on to hope when love feels fragile. A toast to understanding that sometimes, even when the people who raised you forget how to stay, you can still choose to believe in peace, healing and a softer tomorrow. A toast to a quiet yet beautiful November. Happy new month🌸 ^{[img](https://pixabay.com/photos/anise-star-anise-schisandraceae-2785512/) [img2](https://pixabay.com/photos/cinnamon-spices-vietnam-cassia-5469785/)}