The trees don’t know how to die here, I said. They aren’t changing colors. They are turning crispy and stomach-fluish green and falling from the branches half alive. This is a different world, I said. I miss maples. It’s just a different soil, she responded, attuned to my endless cynicism, a disease I caught in New York City and never quite shook.
Later, she said, stop and look at this. Tell me this isn’t beautiful. And I did, and I told her to take a picture, and she did.
Still, I thought, the trees that change in this place are rare. They look like displaced misfits, just for doing what God told them to do.