Autumn, 1984. Sitting on the tailgate of the station wagon, feet swinging, sparrows singing, my boots knocking softly against the bumper. Warm cider in my hands, apples piled high, the air thick with orchard leaves and pine. The world was gold and unhurried.
And every now and then - as he turned his back - a tiny sip of bourbon-kissed cider. A warm rush in my sneaky proud chest, a flush in my cheeks.  
Crisp apples, maple sweetness, a hush of bourbon. A memory that still swings its feet when the air turns cool.
- Rob