COLLECTING FIREWOOD

Amanda and I collected this woodpile. It took a long time. We began in the fall, just when the weather turned and I could see her breath in the air.

We'd cart the wood from the nearby forest. We used a small wheel barrel. Some of it we collected from fallen trees. I chopped them. Then she'd load the wheel barrel. When I'd get tired, we'd switch. She'd chop and I'd load.

As we worked, she'd steal a glance towards me. A peripheral glance. It only lasted a second or two. Was it love? Was it mutual appreciation? Happiness? Satisfaction? Hard work? After all, she made the decision to quit the flats and move up here with me. Actually, sorry, we both made the decision.

And time has begun to move slower for us. I no longer get the pains in my chest. I may be covered in flour when I come from the bakery. But it goes away when I come home to the cabin and I see her brushing her hair by the fire. Her dirty blond red/orange/brown hair. The cabin throws shadows and I can see only black really besides the window of fire and her hair and apple white skin glowing like ivory, a shivering mist around her. I listen to the repeitious shish sound through her hair. She's very meticulous about it. Shish, shish, shish...

I sit by the fire and take my boots off. Rub my aching toes, placing them near the flame. The circular throw rug, knotted and tangled beneath my feet. Tingling them. I feel the same good feeling well up from my stomach. Like a syrup spreading through my body. Coating me. I begin to doze. Shish, shish, shish, her back to me.

I see an immense field of roses. Mostly red, dotted with green. I lie in them and watch the sky. I won't even scratch that ant off me. Miles of red on green. A red carpet. Like Amanda's cheeks after wood cutting. Like her favorite red sweater or church dress. Mile after mile of red carpet, covering the world.