always visible to those who hold us in their hearts
The kitchen is clean and bright. In one corner is an urn of coffee, the aroma of burnt toast. The pastries are kolaches, made by the couple living here. Made for the procession back soon.
A teenager drops an armload of wood onto a pile by the porch and adds a wedge to the burning barrel. Sap pops and smoke rises toward the Gravenstein. Those were my favourite pies.
Jim is a cousin, my age. He splits wood for them every weekend; helps keep the family fires burning. Mickey, grandma’s dog, is beside the barrel, tail-tapping sawdust into wet snow.
Charlie’s old Jeep is back here, in the garage, oozing oil. The box of blasting caps in the back. It’s getting on toward dusk. I have to go soon, but so wished to see them one more time.
