Today I ran along the river and watched the trees turn color—bright red at the intersection with the church, orange maple trees at the farmhouse, before the bridge falling like snow in a snowglobe. I took a photo of every new shade to show you later so that you can ooh and ahh at all the right times and I can swipe through all seventeen and say here and here and here. We’re twenty-two after all and neither of us knows the next place we’ll call home. Just last night you asked me if I would move to Boston or San Francisco or Chicago if you were there and suddenly there was so much unsaid between us, hovering in the air like leaves. I couldn’t find the right words and anyways it was already too late, and even I don’t understand it—the way that time rivers between bodies. The many tributaries of my life branching out in front of me like veins. But for now we’re here in a place that autumns, as in a place where the river grows cold and gray enough to mirror back the sky at us, as in a place where sap runs slow through tree-bodies and becomes the creemees we get at the farm that Tuesday after class, becomes the syrup I stir into my coffee as we sit on my couch with the windows propped open, legs flung over each other like kids. It’s October and still warm enough to wear t-shirts and for a second the world feels big enough for us and all the ones we might be, someday. It’s still morning. I hold on tight.
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