The Meadow

We walked hand-in-hand through the autumn meadow and you felt horrible that the fire-stained leaves had nothing to hold on to -- our fingers slipped from the precipice of our palms and we walked in the cold, blustery afternoon in joint solitude, your hair making waves and currents in the wind.

I punched my hands into my jacket pockets and fisted them closed for warmth. At the old dogwood, I slowed down a step while you whistled a tune I couldn't quite make out. Maybe it was something we used to listen to as children, but the wind took the melody like a thief while the shade lengthened like old fingers. You turned back to me and smiled that closed-eyed, pink'd cheeked smiled; I cried a little knowing you'd be gone in two days.

The scent of smoke was in the air and I knew we were coming close to home. The maple tree from our youth was burning to cinders in the fireplace and the scent carried to us like a sail.