my red heaven

Minerva Teichert said, "I want a little red in my heaven." I want to be in Minerva's heaven, for she has a signature shade all her own. I imagine her up there painting sunsets and bursting dahlias. Portraits of children with cheeks in brilliant shades of rouge. And autumn leaves like those we saw tonight on our way up the canyon to a place I believe to be a little piece of heaven.

Like a Minerva Teichert painting, there were no hard lines, just places where one color fades into another: green blends with yellow, then orange, then red. The further up we got, the less red there was. (The lack of red wasn't an indication of our relativity to heaven, just a change in landscape, I firmly believe.)

We pulled through the gate at The Lot as the sun began to rest its eyelids. The aspens seem to have turned early this year, fallen leaves like yellow confetti welcoming our weekend party up the stone path. We had just enough daylight left for a short walk before dinner. The light of the late afternoon played in the nooks and crannies of the hillside, casting shadows down the face of the mountain, subduing the fall hues.

When everyone was inside, I turned off the light on the deck and stepped out to look at the stars. Aspen branches stretched heavenwards and cradled the night's sky, a canvas of black and white. I located the Evening Star and the curve of the Big Dipper, which has dipped a bit lower than a few weeks ago. Under a Harvest Moon, I imagined Minerva painting a picture of our little Lot in the woods, cocooned in aspens and pines, one color fading into another.