Letters From Kay, Number 8 – The First Frost Waited

My love,

The first frost showed up like a rumor. Not snow — just a thin white lace on the porch rail when I opened the door before coffee, and the grass looking stiff and surprised. I stood there in your sweater with nothing underneath and felt the cold climb my calves like it had plans.

I made the coffee too strong. Habit. Hope. Both.

The mountain is quieter now. The loud gold of last week has thinned to rust and bare branches that scratch the sky when the wind finds them. I sat on the porch steps with the mug burning my palms and watched my breath write little ghosts. Your boots are still by the door. I keep meaning to move them. I don’t.

I keep thinking about the night we almost missed this — how you dragged the quilt onto the porch because I said the stars were better outside, how you wrapped me in it and then unwrapped me one careful inch at a time while the cold made every touch feel louder. Your mouth was warm. The rail was freezing against my back. I came with my laugh caught in my throat and your hand over my mouth so the neighbors wouldn’t know, even though there are no neighbors, which you pointed out after, still laughing into my neck.

I did it again this morning. Same steps. Same sweater pushed up. Cold wood under me and your name in my mouth while my fingers went the slow way first — the way you like to watch — then the mean little rush that makes me swear at empty air. When I came, my breath fogged so thick I couldn’t see the pines for a second, and I stayed there shaking and smiling like an idiot who built a whole life around missing someone.

Went inside. Bare feet on the floorboards. Your side of the bed still colder. I left the porch light on anyway. The frost will take it by morning. Let it try.

Come home while the mountain still has this first-frost hush. I want you on these steps. I want your hands where the sweater won’t stay. I want the next cold morning to find us already warm.

Forever yours,

Kay

P.S. Your Booby Pillow has colonized the quilt on the porch like it pays property tax. Temporary. When you get here, that spot — and everything under this sweater — reverts to you without a hearing.