The end is nigh. Today came in on little grey feet, a soft drizzle and a pot of chicken soup. We'll be bringing in the potatoes and winter squash next week; the onions are already in the greenhouse to cure. It's a heavy season, the last of the harvest. We have a digger, a machine to pull the potatoes out of the ground - and we've got about seven thousand pounds of potatoes, so thank god. We'll still have to haul them into and out of the truck, one fifty-pound crate at a time, but at least we don't have to pull them out of the ground. The trees are starting to turn. We pulled our wool blanket out and added it to the down. After weeks of dry and hot and sun - the rain stopped just in time for a drought - it feels like fall.

We're getting married in 35 days.

Last night with my arm around him and my belly against his back, I thought about his little old man body and my little old woman body, the bodies we'll have in fifty years. Imagined our knotted bones and paper skin here where today we are youth and health and strength. Will we still be bickering over unwashed dishes and doors left open? Will we still see into each other's secret hearts? We are fifty years and thirty-five days away from our golden anniversary. I wonder what we'll do to celebrate.