My husband of 57 years who now resides in Heaven was an expert at fire making. I never asked him if his short stint as a Cub Scout whetted that appetite, or whether six weeks of Pioneer camp when he was a preteen solidified his expertise. I only know he knew how to make a fire that initially flared hot and brilliant. And then, with special tweaking, nuance—a piece of kindling here, a new log there, an added poker proficiency—the fire smoldered and spit and crackled and hummed, giving off a comforting glow, a steady heat as long as we were able to enjoy it.
ANNIVERSARY MEMORIES...
Early morning autumn sun streaks our wooden deck with strands of gold. The sky is a heavenly shade of blue. In the distance the sumac is turning. Celadon greens becoming burnt orange, barn red, mahogany. The reds stand out, brilliant against a drying, wheat-colored landscape. It is the sumac I remember most. It reminds me of the year my mother died, September 30, 1993, twenty-eight years ago today.
FIRE PIT MEMORIES...
The air is light, fragrant. Smoke, curls high up into the trees. Our clothes will retain this smokey fragrance. We talk of everyday things. We talk of important matters. We may need to iron out a misunderstanding. Often we are silent, listening to the crack and sizzle and spitting sounds ’til a chill drives us inside.
The “now” intrudes. The fire pit is a metaphor. A talisman of days gone by. A reminder of the never again-ness of life without my best friend. The ache I feel is there still. It’s been four years.
LINGERING SPRING, YEAR THREE, WIDOW MUSINGS…
Spring comes hard to the Midwest. This morning a 29 mile an hour wind buffets oaks, slants rain horizontal, creeps into window crevices, plummets temperatures to high 30’s. It could snow tomorrow! I clutch hot coffee with both hands. Watch from my bed nature’s onslaught. Defying the golden hope of warmer days, benign winds. Defying a spring when all of Nature’s varied greens abound.