On July 11, 2025, I called out of work. Not because I was sick, but because I was insane, so I got up and started driving. I headed north. It wasn’t just a draw of the soul leading me there; it was instinct.

“Welcome to Vermont,” read the sign. I felt my spirit lighten. Unbeknownst to me, it would soon be my home. I don’t know for sure what called me there. It could have been the massive peaks of green forested mountains, or the rushing brooks, foaming at the rocks. The songbirds or the peaceful deer. Or maybe it was him.

He, the one who took me up Mt. Mansfield, blanketed by night. The man who wished to disappear into the forest, and offered to take me with him. The one who saw my soul and met me with his. Who mirrored my path and altered my journey. The one who tugged at my heart, which I had placed in a box under lock and key.

Maybe the universe brought us together to expand. Like the homestead we’ve begun, the harvest will grow as much as we sow. Our soil’s good, the air is clean, and our hearts are open. We only have to maintain the garden of our beings.

Once, when we traversed the snow-capped mountains, against the muffled silence of the earth, I imagined dying next to him. It was a soothing thought.