How long this summer has been. Lingering, in the beautiful way that beautiful things do. How different from last, when our governor went on TV before the nation to say that the fire was at the gate, to use his words, and that something must be done.

You know, I use to think that I had to invent a new language to describe how much I loved you. Long words with filled with Y's and Z's, underused and fustrated letters that knew of inarticulation. And then, when my dreamed up words weren't big enough, I turned to Cyrillic letters that looked liked your eyes -- imagined, elaborate Japanese characters for your gentle way.

I drew pictures, too. Pictures and pictures of vast Indian wars, of tempests, of Armadas, of besotted kings, and unseen conjurers. And, when even the hieroglyphic Indians and storms weren't enough, I scribbled. Pages upon pages of ecstatic, cathartic scribble.

Last night, on the eve of your birthday, I dreamt that you came to my apartment unannounced and uninvited, led by a dog that seemed to find the gumption you could not. You came to tell me the things I needed to hear, long sagas about Indians wars and magical storms at sea, but you couldn't find the words. You always had trouble finding the words, trouble conjuring up the Y's and Z's. You, who were born in the strangest of months, between summer's end and the beginning of the harvest. Stuck in the place where the trees know that those long, hot days are gone, but aren't yet willing to shed leaves and prepare for winter.

Has it really been a year?
A year since the fires and the smoke?
Another year?