Letter to Beth
It was early fall. Mid-October. Do you remember? By noontime it was seventy degrees, with fluffy clouds sprawling like fat white cats across the sky as we drove down from the mountains. Splendid molten cracks of sunlight split the horizon. It was stunning.
The previous night you and I had camped in the wilds of West Virginia, in a forlorn corner of the National Forest. The skies turned forbidding and drizzly. We set up a tent and somehow built a fire. This was our first time alone together, but conversation was one chuckle after another, and we spooned throughout the night and snuggled in the morning.
Do you remember the following evening? Back in our funky neighborhood, over dinner I kidded you about being a witch and controlling my every whim by treachery, such as the way you sit, and those eyes. When I said that I bet you could make it snow, you just laughed and pretended to not know what I was talking about.
Once again, we forgot to stop chatting until the deepest part of the night. Remember? I said that I’d walk you home, and together we stepped out into the first of ten inches of soft mystery.