I pulled my grey turtleneck sweater onto my body and paused as it hugged my face. A smoky reminder of the past winter clung to the apparel. I closed my eyes and breathed in, hard. I tried to take it in again, tried to take it back to then.
For months Joseph and I alternated trips to the backyard, bare feet shoved into snow boots, to fetch three or four split logs at a time. Tromp back in. Block the open door from the cat or the dog desperately in search of a grassy escape from our shitshack house in winter. Arms create a two-bit basket for every bundle. Slam the splintered door with the force of an elbow, a foot, a wind-up and a pitch of my body. The bundle drops on a surface of dirty brick planks. Wipe the sawdust and shavings from my hands and pick up the axe. Chip, chip, chop. The iron door swings open and a burst of heat greets my face. I blow at it to say hello. Each scrap of wood is laid atop the next, building a delicate nest to support the three larger logs we hope will last until morning. Stacked to the brim, I force the iron door shut.
I feel like a cheat turning up the thermostat now.