It’s cold here - well, not cold so much as autumn has set in. A blanket wraps me, keeping out the chill less well than your arms and smile would do. I’m eating fig-newtons (some organic variant) for breakfast and sipping tea. I can see your head shaking in negation of my food-choice and your eyes crinkling with indulgent amusement. “You’re not here and I’ll eat what I want.” My words puff into the air like smoke. I feel foolish for speaking them aloud in a teen’s defiant tone. Autumn, my favorite season, as yours is summer, and you’re not here.