On the last day of September, I sip warm coffee in the dark, waiting for the sun to rise. From the large bay living room window, I can see more than I want to see. The maple tree has lost its leaves—patches of crisp golden-brown cover the ground. I remember memories I’d much rather cast in the past. But, there we were, swinging on the tire swing, telling each other how much we loved one another; back when we did love one another. Lights turn on in the city below, burning the midnight oil to a grinding halt—smoke filters from the chimney of her cabin.
I can see her dancing nude, but the music isn’t going. She doesn’t see me. But I see her. I always see her. I close my eyes, and there she is; I bat my eyes to clear vision, and there she is, standing before me, begging me to forgive her one last time. But it’s only the end of September.

(© 2021 AC)

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