Vermont and New Hampshire, this past weekend, where I ate maple donuts and maple candy and watched the leaves outside her porch turn to yellow and the trees on the mountainside run from green to orange to red and back to green again like slow swipes of a paintbrush. Where we talked and talked and talked, late into the night, and through morning coffee, and up and down the store aisles, and perched on rocks in the dry river bed.
"We have to write our own chapters," she said, "and if we don’t like the one we’re writing right now, it’s up to us to change it." We joked, years ago, that we had to "turn the page" when one of us inevitably got stuck on a conversation the others had already breezed through, moved on from, left behind.
Turn the page. Write the next chapter. I tell her I don’t know what comes next. “Don’t over think it.”
On repeat, I have a spotify playlist: All Those Years Ago.
We could have, of course, spent the weekend reminiscing. We share twelve years and three states and too many experiences to count. But the present came pouring out instead. Vibrant with depth and energy. Bright colors and pockets of darkness, the leaves on the mountainside.
The future uncertain but refreshing in its freedom. A blank page, a blank canvas, ready for the next colors, the next chapter.