i have an apple cinnamon candle saved up for the first day the snow flies this year. it's tucked in my cupboard, infusing its smell into extra paperclips, size .5 pencil lead, and envelopes and stamps. it's such a romantic thought- an envelope heading to a friend or family member, hiding not only written words with thoughts and greetings scribbled across the page, but the barest hint of the crossing time between fall and winter.
for those out of state, it's a hopeful reminder of home and love. i took out an envelope this morning. i had a letter waiting to go to a place far south of here, a place where sun is constant and the temperatures don't get colder than a temperate morning up in the north in fall. hopefully with this letter, i can send walking around my apartment in slippers, thermals, and a mug of coffee just to keep warm before the heaters clank on. i want to fold up opening the back door on my way to work; that first intake of cold outside air and nestling farther inside the knits surrounding my body.
i tuck the letter in, alongside mounting my old road bike and crunching through the last leaves of the year as i speed down Superior street. the bare branches beginning to shake in a breeze coming off the lake. the few tourists left for the year wear large parkas and walk briskly along the boardwalk, couples holding each other close to keep warm.
which of them use it to block the wind, which use it as an excuse to get closer to the one they love?
i drop the envelope in the blue box, large and open and swirling leaves collecting beneath its feet with the promise of fast fast fast travel and the comfort of receiving a small envelope in a few days.
an envelope smelling of apples, cinnamon,
and the coffee i accidentely dropped on it this morning.