A Fire By Which to Abide

After frost is erased by morning sun, I am barefoot outside in November. 'Tis the season of leaf management and so, raking, tarp pulling, and mounding. At noon I make a bonfire by which to abide. Pine cones as fodder.

As the wind changes direction, I am blessed by smoke. I make a note to write about how campfire smoke is the sexiest smell I know. I want to get high in the last rays of sun before winter, but I don't. Instead a book, the fire, and coffee.

Days are stitched together now by strands of boredom and quiet exhales. Rain and this weekend, accumulating snowfall.

I remember stopping at Joe's Grocery and gas station after church every Sunday for fresh donuts. Six plain, six sugar, six powdered. Grease would soak through the white bag a bit before getting home. They'd be gone within five minutes of getting home. I would dunk my donuts in cold milk and feel grateful that at least there were donuts in the world.

Dinner is now always after dark. Pad Thai tonight with fried egg. A friend wants to leave her kid and husband without telling them because “they would be better off” without her. I believe she will do it.

In the slanted, muted light, shrouded by smoke, I think about her, the migration of trees and the one who showed me my salvation.