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Harry insists that the two of you go to the summer house for the changing of the seasons, every year. You've never been quite sure why but it had become a tradition of sorts.
Maybe it was the way the changing colours of the leaves looked reflected off the clear blue of the lake, or the way that bonfires only felt right during this time of year. Scintillating in their blazen quiver, mimicking the feel of his skin on yours. Stinging, hot to the touch but comfortable in its familiarity and yet bringing you to the edge of the earth each and every single time. There's just something about the smell of the embers, the crackling plumes of pine. A reminder of your youth, brief family camping trips, first experiences at sleepover camp, drunken teenage escapades in the middle of a forest with a keg and no cares in the world.
The fire is cleansing in its place as a key to nostalgia, unlocking old memories and locking in new ones. Burning the smells and sounds of summer nights in Brooklyn, passionate and humid, or the fresh, sweet sugar of newly ripened peaches on an open air patio in Trani, the way the juices drip down your chin, the way he wipes it off with his thumb.
Who knew why he chose this place, at this time, every year. Maybe one day he'll tell you, indulge in your curiosity in everything Harry. But for now you could only speculate within your own gathered evidence, from your experience, from your cognizance and though you continue to wonder, you never inquire because each and every single time, you'd learn something incredibly new about each other.
As if meeting again for the first time,
falling in love all over,
ceaselessly,
under the light of the full harvest moon.
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