Postcards From a Bonfire

So we have this friend who built his own house in the middle of the woods of rural Massachusetts, who just loves to burn shit. Last weekend: three hundred Christmas trees he’d collected from neighboring homes.

Due to various work and personal obligations, driving up there Friday night wound up necessitating complex scheduling, the main consequences of which were:

1.) an unaffordable and amazing dinner a nearby Greek restaurant (flaming cheese! Cava! Baked haddock, roasted garlic, gnocchi and smoked duck!) and

2.) pulling into a Christmas-lit Newburyport parking lot, pushing the seats back, and slumbering to On Point while I waited for my phone to tell me a necessary email had arrived. Tom Ashbrook was unusually bewildered, this time by veganism. You began to snore; I reached over to hold your hand.

Before we left Newburyport, we picked up the fanciest hot beverages we would usually be too embarrassed to order: pumpkin flavored things, steamed with cinnamon and cream. We held these cups like fragile creatures in our gloved palms and headed, silently, into the woods.

Full album: here.

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