Storm
I burn all the candles in the house. It has been seventy-two hours without power. The one generator keeps water in the barn thawed for the horses. In the house, the dogs and I sleep near the woodstove, our only light from candles. Ten degrees outside, the wind tears the stocking cap off my head, overturns the grill, and throws the canoe against the pasture fence. I do not hear the dozen trees that crash down around our house; so loud is the roaring wind. I burn the Advent candles, all at once burn them down to red puddles of wax. Their glow has become more than holiday remembrance, more than symbols of Hope, Peace, Joy, Love. The candles are meeting a real and present need for light. I watch the flame, glance at the flicker in the woodstove. The sunlight that trees absorb in their lifetimes releases again when the wood is burned. I feel the warmth. Where does fire come from? Where does it go? Where are you, my Love?
This is the season of firsts without you. First Thanksgiving. First Christmas. First wind storm. Remember how we sat under blankets in the dark, waiting for lights to come on? How we talked about vacationing somewhere warm? Mad at the wind, your creative incantations of cussing made me laugh. Now the cussing is mine, getting up at 3 a.m. to feed gas into the generator and check the oil while it is still running. Hot oil sprays out as I fumble to shut off the smoking beast. The dogs’ noses quiver at the petroleum scent of my mistake on clothes and hair. We curl back up around the fire waiting for daylight, waiting for you.




Poignant and magnificent! I will forever think of a burning fire in a new way.. and I feel the burning and howling of your broken heart.
Beaurtiful snapshot of a cold day. A season of firsts. All I can say is, hurry spring.