Autumn Stories

AUTUMN STORIES

We pulled old wool

from attic trunks—

musty with forgotten smoke—

and wrapped ourselves

like refugees

in Stromsburg, Nebraska.

At night,

we ran under trees

that quaked louder

than we did,

our voices vanishing

into the hollow hush

just behind us.

The moon

licked at the river.

The leaves

whipped past

like something

breaking loose.

Later,

you told stories

of people I’d misplaced—

cousins, lovers,

some kid who wrecked his bike

outside a church.

I didn’t care much for them.

But your voice

held night air,

dusty highways,

gas stations

where someone always

waited.

When I thought I’d lost

what I thought was love,

you were there—

a shoulder in a Lubbock laundromat,

your shirt going cold

under my face.

I can’t remember what you said.

Just that you stood beside me

when I married her.

Later still—

warming yourself

in our living room,

you spoke softly to my wife.

Something stayed

in the fabric—

a scent,

a sentence

folded into the curtains,

tucked between cushions.

We go back to it,

some evenings,

when the wind starts early

A HUSH BETWEEN SEASONS

and the house cools too soon.

We remember your legs

crossed like a closing door,

your pause

before answering.

We always wanted

to hug you

before you left.

SCOTT SIMPSON