After that first snow, we walked through wood smoke and the weighted arbors of birch trees, our boots heavy from salt and sand. A passing car slowed, stopped, and the driver asked if we needed a ride.

You said, “No thanks, we’re seeking adventure,” and I laughed.

The man in the car laughed, too. He knew you were joking, probably thought we were renting for the week, up from the city shopping for a weekend place. We looked like that.

Today is seven snows since. I walk outside for more wood, glance up—and you’re there in the study, writing.

—Sharon Rousseau