As November sits down to a vast banquet full of all the goodies imaginable, she feels a twinge of pain. She does her level best to ignore it; the feast is what she has desired for a long time. But the pain becomes unbearable as the banquet progresses; she knows what it is, but she does not want to admit it. The guests are concerned with her appearance. They wonder why she is so wan. But November knows; the pangs of her travail have come upon her, too early, much too early. A prolonged labor is not desirable, but it is here.
She knows not whether she will survive the birthing, she knows not whether it will be natural or if she will have to undergo a Cesarean. All she know is that it hurts now...
She knows her family history, however; the birth always results in death. Hastily, she pens a final directive, instructions for her people and for her child.
She scrawls the following words: "My child, I may never see you. I wish you to be named December. May your life be filled with glory and the wonder which I have not known. Be kind to the people. I was not as kind as I could have been. It was an enormous error on my behalf. If I do not get to see you, I beg you to be happy, to love those around you, and to live every day as though it were your last. Fill your heart with love, as love never dies. I love you, my child."
Now, she waits for dusk...and for the darkness to settle.
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