Charles Crane/MDN November Reinoehl cruises along during a bike ride this past summer, after mastering balancing without training wheels in about 15 minutes.

My favorite pen went missing several months ago. It is a gold refillable Pentel gel pen that was gifted to me by a pharmacist I worked with during the brief year I had delusions of being a pharmacy technician.

I already was the kind of pretentious weirdo who collected and used fountain pens to scribble in my notebooks and Rhodia pads, but that pen quickly became my daily driver. It was modern, sleek, reliable, and showy without the labor and maintenance required for my quarter-life crisis purchases from Lamy and TWSBI.

It became especially handy as a shield against my imposter syndrome which I have grappled with ever since this storied newspaper took a chance on me in April 2022. I never finished my journalism degree and hadn’t seriously pursued applying for a journalism gig until a frustration fueled scroll through Indeed while on a lunch break at the old Dot’s Pretzel factory in Velva led to me pulling the trigger and applying.

That pen has mostly lived at my desk at The Minot Daily News ever since, but I’d occasionally bring it home if I had hopes of carving out some time between dinner and bed to get some scrivening done.

The only reason I am where I am right now, is because I had fallen in love with a woman named Angie and her daughter November who lived in Minot. After about a year and a half, continuing a long distance courtship made little sense to either of us. Especially November, who made every goodbye painful and excruciating, whether in person or over our daily Facetime chats.

I don’t know when exactly I lost track of the pen, but I was quick to assign blame to November or her brother Luca, both prolific child artists. In a home with two children under the age of 5, things disappearing is to be expected. I had to settle with using disposables, while I prayed to Saint Anthony that it would turn up.

November always knew I worked at “the paper,” but I don’t think she understood what a newspaper was. But she knew what writing was. She liked modeling me by scribbling in spare reporters notebooks, and I couldn’t always stop her from using one of my “special pens.” Thanks to home school pre-school and a lot of hard work before and during her first weeks of kindergarten, she had just begun to master writing the alphabet and writing her name.

When we discovered an impromptu marker mural on the walls behind our couch, I initially believed it had been the crime of a 2-year-old, but then I saw the immaculate signature which accompanied the work, indicating it was clearly a sibling collaboration. I almost didn’t get mad right away because I was so impressed by how clean her lettering had become.

I first met November when she was just a few months old. Angie and I had been on a couple in-person dates by this point, and she really wanted me to meet November. I was gun-shy, still shaking off a breakup from before the Pandemic. My mom, knowing Angie had an infant daughter, admonished me when I told her about my plan to visit them in Minot to not “fall in love with that little girl.” That mission immediately failed when I sat next to her on the floor and November leaned in and embraced me.

I made a number of promises to November Sky Reinoehl when I married Angie on June 3, 2023. I had prepared a set of vows to her, not that she understood much of my blubbering at the age of 3. She reached up and melted into my arms after I was done all the same.

I promised to be patient (she was getting good at trying it lately, especially getting ready for school in the morning); to be understanding (she overcame a speech impediment common in Pandemic babies), to give in to her goofiness (it did become inconvenient sometimes to know which persona she was operating under at any given time), to be open to her mind and ideas (her insatiable curiosity and incessant questions left no dead air in the car on the way home from daycare), to protect and nurture her, and to pick her up as long as I as able to.

November made me test that last promise every day when I’d pull in at daycare or return from the newspaper, running at me with such force the only way to absorb all of her kinetic energy was to lift her up into the air and catch her. It only got harder once my son Luca entered the equation. But no matter how much strain was required, I held them both as long as my wimpy deskbound body would allow.

The one promise that was out of my control the last weekend of September was to keep her safe. When I had dropped her off with her father that Friday, November insisted I buckle her in, and that we have four goodbye kisses and hugs. She rolled down the window and waved goodbye and yelled one last time, “I love you daddy.” It’s almost as if she knew that would be the last time we’d have a chance to do that.

Luca attempted to wake me up around 7:30 a.m. that Sunday morning until I hit the proverbial toddler snooze button of breakfast, chocolate milk and the Miss Rachel “Potty” episode.

Angie, went to work, while Luca and I relaxed, him with trucks and his sister’s coloring books and me planning (procrastinating) to finish the dishes and get at least a little laundry done before I had to go to work and Angie and Luca would leave to meet November, Jacob and his girlfriend Hannah in New Town for the exchange.

I was not prepared for the phone call which came from Jacob’s father Jesse at 10:33 a.m. I was told I needed to be strong, that there’s no other way to say it, and then the horrible truth we’ve been living with.

There had been an accident on their way out of town to visit Jacob’s parents in Dickinson earlier that morning. November didn’t make it. Hannah didn’t make it. Jacob had been life flighted to Bismarck.

It’s a little bit like being perpetually caught in an endless squall pushing you down into the dirt or your couch. You can’t do anything to control the wind or beat it back, so you just press forward until you can find shelter.

Fortunately, Angie, Luca and I have been well sheltered by the love of so many around us who loved and knew November. We got through those first moments, minutes, hours, and days, but it was only through a groundswell of support from loved ones, friends, our respective employers, and countless other members of the community and beyond.

My brother-in-law Michael and his wife Steph were literal superheroes, managing the major logistics and housing our St. Bernard dog named Maggie while we handled what we could.

My parents Dave and Peg helped us get our household in order, spending an entire day at the laundromat getting us caught up and preparing homemade chicken noodle soup. My mother-in-law Jodi and her husband Rick stocked our pantry, cleaned our kitchen, and even had Luca over for a couple nights as Angie and I coped and processed the reality of a world without his big sister in it.

The flood of sympathy and support also brought with it a mountain of photos and videos, which I used as resources as I labored on a tribute to November for the vigil service. I could only really manage 15 minutes of work most of the nights leading up to her vigil and funeral. I didn’t really have the words at the time, and this would have to do.

Later, while going through bags in search of something we needed, I checked the front pocket of a messenger bag I hadn’t used in a while. Tucked safely away at the bottom was my missing golden pen. The ink had long dried as it sat forgotten in the bag — in fact, likely placed there by myself to protect November and Luca from temptation. However, I like to think November put it there herself after being admonished to put it away, not that I knew what “away” meant to her at the time.

Its return brought with it not only a cause to write but the flow of words which had eluded me before, and the will to power through the video.

Between the moments preserved on our phones and the outpouring of imagery provided by others close to November, this video dedication could have had six seasons and a movie. I kept it to just under 27 minutes, which was mostly determined by the music selections.

Though, I don’t think I’ll be able to listen to “Slipping Through My Fingers” by Abba, Kermit the Frog’s “Rainbow Connection” or Annie Lennox’s “Into the West” again without thinking about November, waiting for us to join her in Valinor.

The song segments were broken up by video interludes, which to me defined every stage of her life and crystalized every virtue she embodied. From her dancing with Luca, serenading us with a “Coco” inspired exclamation of her love for her family while strumming her ukulele, reading her favorite book “Parts” to us, her rendition of her favorite iteration of the “Diarrhea” song, and ultimately a quiet moment with her mom soaking their feet in the waters of the Roaring Fork River in Glenwood Springs, Co., in June.

So much of her life has been preserved, and yet so many moments exist only in our memories, and then there’s reckoning with the infinity of possibilities now snipped from the fabric of her fate.

While I appreciate all of the positive feedback from those who have seen it, the most meaningful comment came from November’s Aunt Joanna, who basically said, “Great job on the video. Did you kiss that brick before you threw it at my head?”

Meanwhile, Angie busied herself with the details, picking out the songs and readings and deciding on the aesthetics. Her labor was writing November’s obituary. Angie used to work at The Minot Daily News and primarily handled obituaries, so she had a good idea for the tone she wanted to strike. By the time she was done, I observed it would likely take up an entire page; which it ultimately did (thanks, Mandy). I implore you to read November’s obituary on The Minot Daily News website published on Oct. 3. Angie proved once again why she’s the real worldsmith in our family.

It goes without saying, November was a very special girl, no more evident than in the outpouring of responses to this terrible event. From her classmates and teachers at Surrey Public School; where she started Kindergarten in August; her many friends from daycare; the grandfather of a random kid she played with at the park; Russ, our apartment’s maintenance man, whom she always greeted and talked to whenever we ran into him on our way out the door; all have made it clear to me why she had such an impact.

If she knew you, she probably loved you. If she loved you, you got a hug. She was nurturing and caring, especially to her little brother between bouts of being annoyed with him messing up a game she was playing or toughening him up.

She enjoyed anything artistic or crafty, making pancakes, dancing, dressing up and doing makeup, riding her bike, reading her books, and getting cozy on the couch with her favorite movies. Even though she could get a bit greedy about her treats, she always made sure everyone got their fair share. She was also developing into a master manipulator, or at least at manipulating me, which admittedly isn’t hard.

Like I noted in my vows to November, from the first moment I had met her as a baby bean and hugged me, she had chosen me. I was scared at first, unsure I could live up to what she and Angie needed. But in the end, because she had chosen me, I knew exactly who I wanted to be: her daddy.

I had the privilege of being in November’s life for a little over five years. She made every day bright and brimming with fun and possibilities. Her light shines still.

In the corner of my eyes in the places and spaces now absent of her presence. In the silence of my commutes, which previously clamored with her questions and tales about her day from her now empty booster seat. Daily routines for three accustomed to a fourth, which might explain why getting ready in the morning hasn’t gotten any faster.

Subconsciously, I guess my body won’t kick into gear until that bedheaded 5 year old who woke up like a teenager on a Saturday morning finally came shuffling out of her bed asking for breakfast and the time to watch two episodes of “Spidey and His Amazing Friends” before her day started.

November’s grandma Jodi made a bunch of photo collages for the funeral, and they’re just sitting out while we figure out where their permanent homes will be.

The other day, Luca stopped in his tracks while in the midst of mischief, noticed the pictures, and recognized his sissy. He sat there for a while, absorbed in the many moments and expressions of who his big sister was, whispering something I could not decipher through his toddler pidgin.

I don’t know how to explain something like this to a two year old, but thanks to every photo, video, half finished coloring book, faded dry erase boards still clinging to the memory of her marker strokes and paint splotches on our dining room table; November is remembered. She is loved. She is missed.

And somehow, I have to pick up my pen, remember her, honor her memory and find the words.