My Love,
I swear you’re haunting me.
Today I sat on our big rock. You know, where the stream trickles into the lake? I closed my eyes, savoring how the western sun warms my face, how the oars splash and pull through the water, how the reflections dance across my eyelids…
Then I thought of you and pulled my jacket zipper higher.
You once said, “I don’t care how much moss is on this. It’s still as hard as a rock.” I laughed because it is a rock. I remembered how I shouldn’t have laughed at you, then brushed moss off my jeans and followed the stream toward home.
You loved autumn here, and how the maples frame the stream like a red and golden tunnel to the bridge. Fallen leaves float past, deteriorating with each stone they hit. Everything, from the scent of decaying leaves to the smell of wet wood reminds me of death, and you.
Jimmy’s rusted pickup rumbled in the distance, so I took my chances under the bridge to avoid the grit of exhaust and dust in my mouth. The water soaked through my shoes, and my toes threatened to shatter like ice with each step on the slimy stones.
Once on the other side, the Mercantile spewed smoke. The smell of grilled onions lured me to the steps. Bruce invited me in, the cowbell clunking over his head from swinging the door too fast. I followed him no further than the door frame.
He’d caught us stealing bottles from the back of his store, and turning them back in for the recycle money. We’d painted the trim white as punishment. Now, I run my fingers across peeled layers that expose green underneath.
Has it been that long?
