The Last Woodfire

It was too cold for comfort the morning of last wood fire. The outdoor thermometer trembled in a wind that bent the birch trees when I dropped young Sam off at School.

The temperature flirted with the teens, but I held off. I didn’t crumble the newspaper and arrange the logs in the Franklin stove until late afternoon.

As I poked at the laptop warmth radiated from the iron stove like a warm hug. The smell of the smoke was more pungent, the flames more exuberant that in midwinter.

As I walked to the woodpile, I remembered stacking logs in September. The turquoise tarp stretched over the cord of wood like a tightly-pegged tent at an Army encampment. Now the slack canvas flapped in the wind over a paltry jumble of split oak. We’d made it through another winter.