These are the ashen remnants of my Fall wishes, lying on our Boston windowsill, waiting for the wind to whip them away. On the first day of each season, in a tradition that Andy taught me when we first met over a dozen years ago, we make a list of our hopes and wishes for the season ahead, then burn them as an offering to the universe. It is a ritual I have come to love, if only to remind us of the passing of time, the demarcation of the days, the way the hours wait for no one. My wishes, oddly enough, are not for material possessions as one might assume – there are no Prada bags that make the list, no Tom Ford Private Blends inked out upon the page. They are far more basic and, again at odds with what the world thinks of me, far more selfless. In those wishes hides the truth, and by burning them I keep it safe.
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