Pennsylvanian autumns are transcendent.
I’ve never seen trees quite like the
ones there. Jade, iridescent, forest
green. Do you remember them? You used to
point them out and whisper their names.
Beech, dogwood, oak, balsam fir. Your voice
was softer than moss. You picked up a
leaf and gave it to me like it was the
most sacred thing you had ever come across.
There was a hole
ripped in one corner and the edges were
crunchy brown and curling. “It’s
broken,” I said. And you said, “I know. It
symbolizes the way things are.
Everything’s a little bit broken
when you pick it up.”
I thought that was the most
pretentious thing I ever heard in my
life, but I didn’t say it. Oh, how
we subdue ourselves to please.
Sometimes when
I am especially missing you,
I retrace our steps and add
more ruptured leaves to the collection.