Firewood Mountain

The large truck backed into our driveway. 

Hydraulics moaned, arcing its contents upward, showering our yard with a sprawling mountain of firewood.

My wife and I sweltered the next three days lifting logs off the grass, piece by piece.

Neatly stacked and covered, it was now protected from the coming summer rains, yet still able to dry out further if needed.

It is now January in New England, weeks since our last snowfall. The wood we had piled closer to our entry door has just now ascended up and out of our chimney. 

Though it is very cold today, the sun persuades me to venture outdoors.

There is now an unobstructed green path inviting me to visit those large stacks of cordwood on the far side of the garage.

While re-stacking some of it closer to the house, I became aware and surprised by my recognition of individual pieces of firewood that had been delivered last summer in preparation for the coming winter.

My familiarity with those pieces felt intimate, as if I were crossing paths with people that I hadn’t seen in many years. 

I knew their every feature, every wrinkle, every blemish, and all their asymmetry caused my mind to shout out: 

“I know you!”

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