My grandmother tells me she believes Indian Summer is on the way. It comforts me when she practices her powerful predicting, the mix of a Farmers Almanac and her television on full tilt. I think about warmth and the last chances of a year as I cradle the phone. I try and tell her some news but she can't hear me well tonight, her ears so old. So I tell her stories about Indian Summer, I read her a poem about you. I imagine she sees us with amber light like halos on our heads down in the country. She hears us make promises in the October air so long ago. When I held your hand. When I kissed your mouth. When the world was not so frightening. When the sun made love to us all.