Joe’s nose is still cold in the present, but his hands are warm from his thick, knitted gloves. And winter has lost its sting given the comforts of their attic flat with a large bed, a fat duvet, and Nicky’s annual concession to descend into a wonderful hibernation. Joe can enjoy the riot of turning leaves when he knows he can return to a warm armchair. He delights in the visual chaos of red and orange because he’s wearing a hat and his coat is buttoned up to the scarf Nicky knitted for him out of purple and blue scraps of yarn.

He's so lost in the pleasure the park and the trees and the brilliant blue sky that it takes a moment to realize Nicky has fallen behind. Joe turns and sees Nicky squinting up into the interior of a showy yellow tree.

“What?” he asks, beginning to amble back to him.

“Oh, nothing,” says Nicky, in exactly the tone of voice that always means something is up.

“Whaaaat,” Joe repeats, but Nicky simply grins at him, then jumps up to grab a low-hanging branch and swings himself up into the tree.  Joe jogs the last few steps to where Nicky had been standing. “What!” he exclaims.

Nicky is already a couple of feet higher than before. “It’s beautiful, Yusuf! The color!”

Joe sighs and shakes his head. “Nicolo di Genova, this is a public park . . .”

“Can’t hear you,” Nicky yells back.

Which leaves Joe no choice but to climb into the tree after him, and absolutely no option but to race him higher and higher, laughing as Nicky laughs, apologizing to errant birds that they’re disturbing, and once, a very surprised squirrel.

Nicky pauses when the branches begin to thin, too light to take their weight. “Hallo, my love,” he says with a grin as Joe settles near him.

“You are one thousand years old,” says Joe, trying and failing not to smile. “Too old to climb trees.”

Nicky snorts. “And yet the evidence of your eyes suggests . . .”

Nuvém Geracional, 2025

Gouache and homemade coffee based watercolour on 200g paper

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