After setting my coffee to brewing, I waddle to the woodstove and start a fire. At first, a single flame dances tenderly, seemingly innocently below an assembly I made last night in the firebox. The flames soon waver up into fingers clutching at the split lengths of wood.
I
watch.
In a
matter of minutes, the fire has become a thing of greed. Embers grin red at
blackened fringes. Heat shoulders against me. Flames fill the entire box.
Hello,
old friend.
I
consider.
I am
old. This is not how I identify, but this is how I classify. The passing years
and all of my memories have somehow gathered themselves into a monolithic
presentation. Yesterday feels the same as the times I sat sharing an afternoon
cup of coffee with my grandmother forty-some years ago. In my mind, I’m still
celebrating our landing on the moon. And directly beside that, I’m cutting the
stray ends of my wife’s hair last week.
Hello,
new friend.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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