Photo by Greta Unetich

By Greta Unetich

The fields in the Finger Lakes are wide and lonely, far from people. But sometimes, something glitters in them like light on the water, like an almost-forgotten memory that is still warm to the touch like sunlight in September, a memory that is sometimes reminiscent of a distant piano playing, soft and smooth. There are places here that my heart loves, and places that my heart aches for. That night, you were so golden you looked like a fever dream. Everything the light caught was golden, from the grass to the tiny English daisies to our stray hairs, anything small and fine. I remember looking up from where I lay on my back on the dirt road: the zenith of the sky was still blue, but the horizon was starting to turn. Your eyes were blue in the setting fire, a strange and beautiful experience. 


November got colder much faster last year than it did this year—sleeping at the lake, there is no more falling asleep warm while the air was cold on your face and shoulders. 

⁕ The snow made the night brighter than it actually was, the warmth from the blankets made you feel like you didn’t have skin. The sun sets early now, all at once. This was the last warm day of the year that I remember. A memory that glitters in my head like a past life, almost forgotten.


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