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On the nineteenth of September we decided to go to that place in our dreams.
It's slightly cool, but seasonably warm, the vast ancient forest of Quebec has just started to fade into hues of ruby and amber.
Did you get the hollandaise? I'll make the crepes. Gather the long slender spears of asparagus from the garden, they always were such weeds.
We still have some lemon curd and biscuits left over from a fortnight ago.
You're wearing your old wool cardigan, a faded shade of burgundy and a bit torn, but your dark flaxen hair and subtle deep brown eyes illuminate the soul burning inside.
We drive the slightly rusted mini cooper up the dirt road to the lake while listening to Hidden In Plain View, {just wait and you'll see you're everything I want...}.
It's kind of cool by the shore, the mist rises over the water; all white and silver.
The only sounds are from the crickets and the frogs, softly echoing through memories of that day.
So I row you to that island, past the lily pads and the willow trees, weeping still for the unforgotten souls who have yet to live a life we haven't.
Benjamin in the front nesting in his wicker creel, you gazing from the back holding onto your quilt, but you're no Lady of Shalott, we have each other like two parts of
one apparition invisible to the world.
Into the cove and under the birch I tie up the boat. I carry the basket and the creel with Benjamin curiously poking his little pink bunny nose out, you noticeably gather the blankets and the wine.
We lay the tattered Gaelic covers down and watch the water silently kiss the shore.
Our supper isn't too filling nor too scant, but perfectly attenuated to the burning desire only found inside.
The scene is something Peter Kalm might have written in an ancient tome rotting on shelf of the booksellers shop.
The soft west wind flutters the trees and Sol shines its life-giving rays upon us warming our bodies, under covers hidden from the world.
Benjamin indifferently nibbles the alfalfa and the parsnips, although his favorite activity is laying between us.
As I row back to the mainland a crane flies over the eastern sky, life carries on. Tomorrows another day in the small decaying cottage where our only connection to
the outside is through some BSD system, DragonFly I think.
The subtle aroma of frankincense wafts through the air while I boil the pudding and pour a brandy sauce.
The sun gives weigh to a purple red canvas. The wood shutters open with no screen leave a vacant conduit for the warm Autumn night. A thick clouded fog rolls in while we lay upon the leather love seat in each others arms and drift off to sleep.
The lonely flame in the red Moroccan lantern shimmers and disappears, completely dark and silent just you and me.
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