The trees wrote a lot of letters this year. The wind delivered them to streets, rooftops, between rows of empty cornstalks.
Barely any of them will be read. All will go unanswered.
My daughter played in them, wearing a pointed witch hat and a purple tutu. Her hair was matted with mud and shreds of cursive writing. She laughed. An energetic squeal sent a flock of crows into the sky.
It was Halloween. And a witch danced in correspondence.
A fire erupted at the base of someone’s flue and I wished my camera could capture the scent of embers, or the sound of light-up shoes on wet grass. Instead it caught a moment I’d already left behind.
Next year the trees will write again, and my daughter will tumble around in their soggy words, while their ink pens creak above like dry bones. A cat might resume the dance, or maybe even a ripe squash. But the witch is in the past.
Don’t blink. Life is a Polaroid.