Tucked under my chin, a sage-colored blanket smells of amber and mint. Flashes of purple tuck me in; I remember a sunset the evening before.  

Driving home, is like this blanket in feel.

Against all the magenta, orange and cream colors, I hold my camera. Point and blur and focus, click. I almost didn't take these pictures because sometimes the photos we don't take stick with us longer. 

I stopped by Louisburg Cider Mill on my way back home from a photo shoot. Full, I feel full. With color, the glow of headlights against a fading sky getting stronger in saturation by the moment -like steaming hot water when you push down a floating bag of tea. The water getting darker, richer by the minute.

I burn my tongue on the first half-scared, half-hopeful sip of hot apple cider. 

Several photographers flood the shopping area with their black clothes and expensive-looking leather camera straps across their backs like butterfly wings. 

I think about introducing myself, to connect. But the dropping sun and smell of fresh cinnamon sugar donuts quiets me. I could wrap myself in these things.

Pressed against my stomach, a couple items rest, my sore hands gripping tightly. Old country plays on a dust-caked radio in the corner; I am slow dancing in my mind. I scoop up a few treasures to fill in the stockings -only a month away. And I remember how I've been taking photos for four years out in this direction. 

A dozen donuts are the standard. People stand in line to dunk them in cider made on location; the best in the state. We all smile because share something warm on a blustering Saturday night. Sticky-fingered people push the door open, little sugary fingerprints a kind of historical marker.

Observing those that pass in and out of the shop, I thank God I left a certain story behind. That the love I have now is greater than years before. That I'm free in it. That I'm one of God's little sugary fingerprints.