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  Our love glows like the lighted window of a cabin deep in the forest. It matters not that only I have traversed the breadth of these woods, picking my way by instinct, as unseeing as a mole, until I have worn new paths onto its leafy floor.

  Unexpected obstacles proliferate like mushrooms in autumn. I advance through them, searching in my despair for the treasured delicacies that you brought to our table, the ones that merited cries of delight upon discovery, a groan of sensual pleasure as you lifted them from our plate. I find the majority I encounter to be bland and tasteless, although they nourish me. The occasional mistake, those of a heartlessly promising but ultimately poisonous variety, have left me weak and disillusioned, entertaining defeat.

  The soaring oak and the walnut tree survive.  I have saved them from loggers and from my own sometimes dire need for firewood. Of the saplings we planted, some succumbed to thirst, others to ice, one or two to neglect, though many that I have tended thrive. Songbirds stop in their branches. I listen to them, but have never learned their names.

  I remain outside of our cabin, though, and it is often cold and sometimes I am lonely. The window is bright and staves off the darkness, but it is not warm and there is no shelter. The loggers do not recognize me, and no one comes to visit. I dare not open the door for fear of extinguishing the light. I don’t think I could stand the thought of it going out. I cannot imagine any other source filling that window, lighting up this part of the forest.

     survive  3: to continue to function or prosper despite : withstand