I keep at it, the axe swinging in a silver arc against the steel sky, the wood splitting clean with the sound of ripping linen. Sweat slides down my brow, and my shoulders ache, and my breath steams. The snow is littered with splinters. The sun is a vast orange nebula behind the oak, the house, and the thin plume of smoke rising from the river-rock chimmney. Ravens crackle in the timber, and night creeps under the heavy boughs.
When it's done I stomp back up to the shed and stand beneath the awning. The pines are already black, the melt far away, but we'll be warm this evening. I turn inside.
Two rooms are all we need together, two rooms for living and for dying, a room for waking and a room for sleep. One window on the world, two burners on the stove, three shelves for food and a simple wooden bookcase. A big trunk with leather clasps to hold our few belongings. A small bed with quilts. A table, with candle, notebook, pens and camera. The only thing you shoot is wildlife photography, and I only shoot pictures of you.
Your pictures cover one wall.
While my boots dry and the tea steeps in its kettle, I open a volume of Gary Snyder and read to you: "When you ask for help it comes / but not in any way you'd expect." The fire pops and hisses, aromatic cedar filling the warm room. You're silent again, and it reminds me of mornings in Portland years ago, when we'd rise at dawn to sit outside the cafe and read together, the distances just a few feet of cool summmer air. An hour would pass as it does now, content with mere presence, two bodies in heat with waves rising between us, and all the possibilities of day and night ahead.
But you aren't here this winter. You never were.
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