One of my goals for 2015 is to spend more time writing. Therefore I started the 52 Weeks Project, a project in which I post one short piece I have recently written every Wednesday in 2015.
I put another log in the stove and latch the door. I’m crouched down in front of the hearth, watching. A spot on the glass is covered in black char from a recent flame. I make a mental note to clean the glass tomorrow, see the fire better. Orange embers glow below the fresh pine. Nothing.
I sit and stare for a while, feeling the warmth radiating from the stove. I know if the log doesn’t catch, the fire will die, the warm will grow cold. Is this how it happens in life?
Maybe the log is like my mother, who was once a painter. She made beautiful landscapes in oil, and some of them hang on my walls. Now her work collects dust in an upstairs closet; her paints sit crusty and dry in the attic.
Or maybe it just grows old and weary. An elderly woman I know ran marathons in her youth. Now she walks the neighborhood half-blind, poking everything with her cane.
I keep my focus on the burning embers, the orange breathing through the black. Staring won’t achieve anything, but the warmth sure is nice. Eventually I stand, unlatch the door once more and prod the log until it crosses the coals diagonally. I poke at the coals, replace the poker, close the door, latch the handle.
A few moments later, the log catches.