October saw us on aeroplanes herk-jerkin to Boston that chewed us up in traffic and spit us out on 93. It was dark and stormy when we reached our destination—a New Hampshire cabin owned by Arthur’s aunt and uncle. Having risen at 4 a.m., we were all but insensible and promptly put to bed.
I awoke to this.
We explored and breathed deep all the autumn things.
We also visited Arthur’s sister and fam in Vermont.
Nieces and a nephew painstakingly poked around our edges and in the end decided we’re all right. We made a jack-o-lantern and apple pie, skipped rocks in the river, played soccer and exhausted awful jokes.
Arthur painted a skirmish at sea.
I can’t imagine.
The simplest things.
Back in New Hampshire, not far from the cabin, Arthur led me to a cemetery with headstones placed in the 1800s. We like to joke where we’ll go when the shit goes down, packing up our dogs and go-bags and hatchets, some place dead and safe.
This place? Time forgot, we’re sure of it.
It will never change.
(Look closely, the stone says ARTHUR. Eep!)