“The light is special now, highlighting abnormal revelations of color, and death. Or, to be less dramatic, the death of what is above ground, and the powerful sequestering of energy happening, below ground. I feel like I’m awakening in late fall, into a more familiar form of exile. Fewer free floating tourists in the handful of general stores I frequent, a slower pace on their porches and parking spaces, time to notice, who’s missing. I haven’t seen so-and-so in a while, I think, while glancing up at the smattering of event posters on a community bulletin board. Paul Winter, how fitting. Now as old, as old man winter himself. There’s no one at the picnic tables, by Silver Lake, while the surrounding hills are still mostly orange, and leaves spill, and spill, across a roadway devoid of cars, ever time the wind speaks. I finally have my truck back, after a summer of frantic truck repairs, spread out over months, and punctuated by borrowed or rented vehicles, and hitch-hiked rides. The body work is scheduled for November. Stick season. I’ve fallen in love too many times this year. With places, people and things. On my own Tuesday, I entered the Barnard Store, with low expectations but high hopes. I might find a danish. The warped wooden floor always feels good. And normally, patrons pass each other, without looking up, mightily intent on their tasks at hand during the summer heat. Well, now, things are cooling off. Heading past the front counter, I made my way toward the coffee station, but did encounter a stranger in the isle. He was tall, and ready with the a guileless smile, and friendly face, that disarmed me. He looked about my age. I went about my business, getting whatever coffee and a pastry, but felt warmer. I passed him again, and his wife, on the way out. He smiled again. I in my work overalls, insulated, and hair messed up by the wind, or my hat, I’m sure, I felt stunned, by a love gun. Stumbling out to my truck, I stopped again, to read about the concerts, harvest dinners, and concierge services offered to visitors with money. I don’t know why I locked my truck. I really just needed it open, so that the whole world of smiling lovers, would flow in. If there is such a thing as karma, one man delivered his smile on time, and to great effect. Although driving to my job, I felt gratitude in the form of tears, which I could not properly explain to myself. Hot coffee, a danish, a few minutes to eat it, a love bomb, and a quiet dirt road. The day would be filled with flower bombs, also filled like cream puffs, with beauty, vibrant, and dying. With promises both unavailable and fully aimed to intentionally imprint their mark. The last pink phlox blossom; blue lobelia spikes, and late, pale yellow trollius, pungent with saturated, concentrated endings. I didn’t have a lunch. I ate my second danish, walking back across the gravel driveway, to continue cutting with a sickle, and scissors. My clothing was already getting damp, but I wasn’t cold. I was warm, filled with an elixir normally denied. I could not believe how amazing love is, when it’s given freely, by someone you’ve never met, and will never see again.”
