He came in the fall, turned red and yellow with the leaves. He taught me how to swim in the cold water. I did ballet for him in the lake. Plié-ed and revlie-ed in the shallow end until our skin was soft like bible pages.
We’d sit in the mud, water dripping from our hair. Each drop reflecting light, I’d pretend they were lost stars. Made wishes on each drip.
Me and the woods would hold our knees to our chin, listen carefully when he’d tell us secrets of some galaxy, stories of kings and gods. Watched his fingers trace pictures in the dirt, make universes, draw the elements.
Said “It’ll tell us how, but never what.” His body, cold from the water that turned his skin into powder, would lean closer with his eyes calling out mine, and me and the woods would stop breathing to make sure we caught whatever he was going to say. “We always want to know what,” he told me.
And even after we rode our bikes home, ankles covered in dust and weeds with the red afternoon light burnt out of our heads, I still thought he was wrong. With his dirty finger nails and serious eyes. I didn’t want to know what. I needed to know why.
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