Underneath It All, We Are Home

"I am having an existential crisis," I tell Mallory. I hear the wind's bluster, close my eyes and smile as the sunlight flickers on the wall through my eyelids. Squirming in my chair, my eyes open suddenly, dart for the window and land squarely on a picture of a perfect fall day. Cars are lined peacefully in a parking lot as dark clouds race to reveal sudden bursts of sunshine and let loose a flurry of glowing yellow leaves that float swirling sparkling and spinning toward wet pavement.

I have seen the imprint of maple leaves on concrete, nature's little art project, cave drawings for a new millennium, a reminder that we are all campers here. Wet autumn days challenge us, and we industriously chop wood, dig latrines, revel in our scrapes and cuts. Our red-cold fingers and red-hot tempers flare, and under a gray sky of freezing rain, beneath steamy layers of cotton and wool, we are warm and in love with muscle, skin, cartilage and bone.