I never liked autumn leaves as you do. I watched you look at trees, the delight on your face intensified when you closed your eyes and hugged the trunk. You once asked if I had a red ribbon for the pine cone you plucked, it would complete the winter bliss of the photograph you wanted to take. My purse always had what you needed, from floss to batteries, and candies to pain pills, and a red ribbon was procured.

Spring had you enjoying cherry blossoms. Summer had you enjoying shade. Autumn had you enjoying the gold and copper, the natural wealth of nature!

Whenever you celebrated trees to me I'd remind you of that ONE SCENE in "The Evil Dead" or that weird picture with Tori Amos straddling a trunk. You never failed to yell at me, and you never once laughed.

I dropped some autumn leaves on the mound of dirt at the base of cement stone, and the last few leaves I crumbled to dust.

I live in the city now. The papers and flyers lining walls and cork boards, advertising the pointless endeavors and distractions you always chided me for loving are the same colors as the leaves you used to love. So in a way, I suppose, I am not unfaithful.