I dress myself in a fine silk skirt, the color of red wine, covered in open peonies, and slide my feet into leather boots with pointed toes, the same pair that walked that forest aisle. The wind ripples silk behind me. For six blocks, the indulgence of it licks my bare legs like flames. I kiss the sealed edge of the envelope addressed to my former last name and feed it to metal. Inside: an obituary in three pages, my grief, and your freedom. Mine, too. A single golden maple leaf releases earthward. And silk licks my legs like flames.
Elizabeth Grey is a writer, fly fisher, and lover of boreal forests, rivers, and the sea. She lives where the wind directs her. Instagram: @helloelizabethgrey