So it’s you and me, in the middle of the night, and we’re deep in the woods behind my family’s
farm house in Tennessee. Everything is the same as I remember, except the trees are twice as tall,
and I’m not afraid for once. We’re in a clearing, sitting on an old fallen tree and the moon is
shining down on us like a stage light. The air is warm and thick and so fresh that we both keep
taking long, deep breaths trying to hold onto the moment. When I was a kid I swore these woods
were magic. I dreamt of fairies in the moss and kind witches with spellbooks. I knew whatever
was being kept from me was something wonderful, something life-changing. I just never thought
the magic would be seeing you alive again.

We’re sitting close enough so that our legs just barely press into each other. I can feel you
smiling at me and for some reason it still makes me nervous, so I’m looking down and picking at
a piece of rotting wood from the tree under us. It’s quiet, in the eerie yet peaceful way that only
the woods can be. I’m scared to look at you for too long, like you may fade away into dust right
in front of me. But you say my name and I turn to meet your bright blue stare. Your cheeks are
freckled and flushed like you’ve been working in the sun. You’re smirking at me just like you
did when we first met. I’m waiting for you to say something I should roll my eyes at, but you just
keep looking at me, patiently. I want to ask you a million questions but the only words that come
out are “You look young.” And you laugh a little, then say “I am.”

I want to cry but I don’t. I don’t want to tempt the fragile cosmic ecosystem that brought you to
me. You lean in to kiss my forehead and I can smell your cologne and I take my time to inhale.
You hold my hand tight and I feel the callouses. The entire forest around us holds its breath. In
your grip, I remember your red Subaru and Camel Crushes and my seventeen-year-old racing
heart in your passenger seat. I can’t think of the bad moments, they stopped mattering the
moment you died. All I can do is soak this in, for however long we have.

You tell me to follow you. And of course I do, without question, just like old times. We step out
of the clearing and into the depths of the trees that grow taller with every step. You’re telling me
a story, one hand still holding mine, the other flipping through the air with emphasis. I don’t

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know what you’re saying but it all makes some sort of holy sense to me. The trees creep further
and further apart, creating a path for us as we walk for days or weeks or months. The sun never
comes out, so we stumble over tree roots and laugh through the dark. We take turns testing our
balance, walking on imaginary tightropes. Sometimes we run as fast as we can, just to feel the
blood rush through our veins. The stars and moon keep us company, peeking through leaves
overhead, quietly cheering us on.

We stop breathless, right at the side of a towering waterfall. Our body heat fights against the cool
air as we stare down at the cloud of crashing water hundreds of feet below. We stand so close to
the edge that the mist rolls over us in a heavenly haze until we’re dripping wet. You smooth your
hair back off your forehead and I wipe the water off my cheeks. You look at me long and hard,
like you can’t believe I’m here. Finally, you break your staring and wrap one arm around me, as
you light a cigarette. I’m smiling, and some tears start to mix with the mist as an old familiar
feeling settles in. You always make me feel like I belong wherever you are, no matter how
intimidating that place might be. We watch the water rush by us for a lifetime. Neither of us
speak except when you whisper to yourself “It’s just so fucking beautiful,” and I know what you
mean. I’ve understood for a long time now. That life moves fast and wildly and we’ll never have
a grip the way we want. All we can do is wrap ourselves in these moments that mean something
to us, the moments that make us know we’re not alone out here on our own cliffs.

Suddenly, you drop your cigarette into the rapids below. I follow your gaze deep into the woods.
I don’t see anything, but you look scared which scares me because you’ve never looked scared.
Before I can panic, we’re in a pickup truck driving down the highway on a warm sunny day. My
feet are up on the dashboard, the windows are down, your right hand is on my thigh. A song
comes on that I don’t remember but I know I love. We’re singing along and I’m just happy to be
here with you. I don’t know where we’re going, but I have the vague sense that we’re being
followed. I can feel the dull drum of the inevitable deep in my gut. I keep my eyes on the
horizon, praying hard for eternal yellow lines. You’re looking at me from the driver's seat with a
glossy sadness in your eyes, like you can hear the drumming too. You squeeze my leg, turn up
the music and hit the gas. “We’ve got to get you back now, baby.”