Rewriting

I remember a picture of my mother, standing in the woods wearing a leather jacket. She was about twenty years old, and the crisp fall air fingered her blue-black hair that stood out against the orange, red, and yellow leaves. The man behind the camera was my father, and she had ridden behind him on his motorcycle that day. I looked at the image of my young mother, a young woman on the cusp of motherhood, and thought my father and her were the two most romantic people in the world: Riding a motorcycle through winding roads, finding secret treasures of red, orange, and yellow in the wind; stealing kisses and photographic images of one another.

In past life, about nine years ago, I began to attempt this novelty of romance with a man I was with. Although we had some wonderful pictures to take home, our trip to the crayola forest wasn't traveled by motorcycle. Sure, we travelled the same winding roads, got off at the same exits. We thought we were in love. Many of those trips began with an aspirin in the morning, after a night of being drunk on cheap beer, love, and hate. I always thought the trip up north to see the gifts of the fall season would unite us once again. And, for a moment, they did.

For six years I have wanted to go back to those magical woods, wanted to see the leaves change in the northern part of my state. For six years I have asked my current partner to go, and for six years we never found the time. Secretly, I don't think I was ready. Aside from a few childhood visits, he was the only one I walked those paths with. Paths that my partner and I have never traveled together, paths that I never wanted to travel with him. What my love and I have is true, and I didn't want the memories of the past to linger in the cool, crisp air, surrounding us. Extreme, I know, but when you have allowed something so beautiful to be ruined by someone else or another situation, bringing something you cherish so much to "it" seems careless.

Today my love and I decided to embark on our own journey. He, a little reluctant, having never experienced "leaf peeping"; me, sounding hopeful, encouraging the trip with the idea that we were able to spend the whole day together and get some fresh air. The sun was shining, the wind was blazing, the colors were vibrant.

I had been to each stop we made in my past life, but encouraged my love to initiate the hunt for the perfect trail, the perfect photo. He gained a true appreciation for the colors, the smells of dried leaves, the calm breeze. Watching him discover the treasures, the magic of fall in the mountains, was refreshing.

By the time we stopped for lunch, I silently decided that the leaves changing and mountain air were reserved just for the two of us. Each stop, each picture, each hand holding moment, replaced one from the past until we started writing new chapters and making the experience our own, one we created.

The day was beautiful. We all have the author-ity to rewrite our stories.