We stood under a Californian sycamore, and I was flooded with the reminder of more of the same. But here, encountering sameness felt like a sign. Leaves more green, time more still, the air crisp and hawking down my legs; when we returned to our bed in your sister’s house, you told me you couldn’t wait to marry me. And I’ve already joined you under the sacrament of our sycamore tree.
And again under the blue moon.
PG
