Thick with the weight of a thousand buried souls, the fog collects in the valley. Wispy edges move and catch on tree-like silhouettes that bend like fingers, motioning me forward, my breath heavy with longing in my chest. I move, drawn to the trees barely illumined by the moon. I move, closer to the Hemlock trunk and touch the grainy bark, softened by damp moss. I move, every breath closer to my last.

And then, you reach through the fog, a bony hand that feels like it’s shaped from memory, that clasps mine, pushing me along as the wind blows the tree limbs into a three-quarter rhythm, a waltz. The fog parts and we begin: I step back with my right foot. You follow with your left. Memory returns in hazy shades of orange, flecked with gold. You pull me in close with a strength I couldn’t even begin to imagine you’d have. Your wrist bends, elbows too. We move forward, back, side to side. I feel you lead me, the fresh smell of earth holding us in one embrace. When you pull me to the right, to spin among the entrails of mist, I go, willingly. When you dip me down and hold me, I can see straight into what was once your eyes, and I remember the amber light they held on that one fall day you first kissed me.

And now I know. I know for sure, you’re here again.
So I whisper, “take me.”