"Let's go for a walk," he suggests as we sit on the couch. Anxious to see more of the rapidly changing autumn foliage, I agree and eagerly slide my toes back into my shoes.
"Are you sure you want to wear those?", he asks, pointing to my flip-flops. Nodding, I know that navigation of the hilly terrain will be much less difficult if I go put on my Merrells, but I am not yet ready to imprison my feet in real shoes while the weather is so mild. Pulling open the squeaky door of the cabin, we step out into the fading evening light. Though it is nearing mid-October, I can still hear a partial chorus of frogs on either side of the nearby river. From this side of the hill, the sinking sun is not visible, but we can see the tops of the trees bathed in golden light. The timberline along the river takes on an ethereal glow, a thin veil of mist rises from the gilded grasses below.
Hand in hand, we make our descent from the cabin down the hill towards the river. "I just cleared all of this last week," he makes a sweeping motion to indicate where he has carefully trimmed back the overgrowth of lush vegetation. I smile, appreciative of the many things he does which benefit others.
A few more strides, and we reach the path beside the water. Though leaves colored of amber and bronze have already fallen to the ground, the grass beneath is still vibrant and green. Our footsteps disturb the drying leaves, revealing tiny crimson leaves which are strewn about in unexpected places. We stop at the edge of the riverbank, the sounds of water surrounding us.
"The river is so shallow here, more so than when I was a kid." He explains that there was a flood awhile back, and when the river exceeded its banks, the overall depth decreased and the river remained wide thereafter. It occurs to me how life can be like a river, too. Sometimes our lives seem to change courses rather unexpectedly, as when a river exceeds its banks.
"It's beautiful where you can see the smooth river stones beneath the surface of the water," I remark. I am mesmerized by the effect of the river, how it conveys bits of debris in its gentle current, a synchronized swirl of brightly colored leaves amidst sparkling bubbles, all floating in unison to an unseen destination. Life feels to me like this. We float toward our fates, not knowing what the future may hold. My thoughts return to one of the songs that he has written. Since I heard him sing it a few weeks ago, his words still echo in my mind, "...most of the time you don't see love a-comin...." I turn to see him standing beside me, and I know that fate is smiling upon me.
Stepping around a scattering of delicate blue asters, we make our way back to the path. Noticing the coolness that has crept into the evening, I am content to cling to his warm muscular arm as we walk. As we continue down the path, he points out various hidden cabins upon the hillside, homes belonging to the friends he's known since childhood. "You are so lucky to have grown up in such hidden beauty, this special place," I observe. "I know," he confesses. His eyes reveal his thoughts about how he had to reach adulthood before he could fully appreciate his experiences in early life. Indeed, this is true for most of us. Time is an excellent teacher, though we are sometimes willful students.
As I silently admonish myself for wearing inappropriate shoes, we begin our ascent up the hill in the direction of the soft sunlight. The voice of the river gradually diminishes as we turn the corner on the path. A well-hidden deer chides us with a snort, and we watch as she sprints ahead of us toward the upper meadow. Through the dense trees, the outline of the deer is faintly visible. Stopping, we stand very still to watch her, wondering how long it will be before she breaks into a run again. The deer casts a cautious glance behind her, and a small speckled fawn soon appears. Together, they bound forth and disappear into the underbrush, the sound of their hooves fading quickly away.
The path opens into a wide expanse, and the trees lining either side have become larger with more space between them. Continuing our climb, the golden meadow upon the hilltop slides into sight. Still hand in hand, we reach the crest of the meadow. Slowly sinking down, we settle comfortably into the cool grass beside one another. The faintest scent of pine rises from his skin, a lingering reminder of his work from earlier in the day. The sky above us is still a brilliant blue, and fragments of white clouds swim in its azure depths. Toward the horizon, the ripples of clouds have taken on a pale purple hue, swirls of orange curling between them like the kiss of a flame. We watch, enraptured as the evening glow intensifies, a liquid fire set ablaze amongst the clouds.
"How many people are missing this beautiful sunset? Think of all the people who are sitting inside, watching television, when they could be seeing this," he states. Once again, I'm amazed at how he seems to read my thoughts and form them into words before I do. "People get too busy with life, and they forget how to enjoy the simple things," I whisper as I gently kiss his fingertips. There is nowhere I would rather be than right here in this meadow, in this moment, with him.
