He was tall and thick, like the trunk of an old tree, although his face was young, unscarred by hard winters. His coloring wasn't the normal light color of the rest of us--the color of a birch--but dark, like a maple, making me wonder which of his parents had traveled from the North. His hair was flaming red like leaves in the fall, except it was thick, too, as though not a leaf had fallen from his canopy. His eyes were filled with a sweetness of syrup, and I knew instinctively I could trust him. For a fleeting moment, my gaze rested on his mouth, questioning if that sweetness would translate to something I could taste on his lips.