It was just a little place to store wood.
It looked harmless enough, and yet when I saw it things tumbled out of my heart that I didn’t know were there.
There was the promise of the first snap of fall and the times when the leaves start floating down,
back down to rejoin the earth.
There were long nights by the fire, and conversations by the glow of embers burning low.
It was celebrations toasted and ending and new beginnings.
And all in that little stack of wood.
I saw snow falling, heard rain pelt on the window and moaning winds and creaking branches scraping on windows.
Times when it’s so cold that only your nose is peaking out of the covers.
It is camping and sadness and times that will never come again. It was remembering the time my Dad and I stacked wood and what a good time working together we had.
And how long ago that was now.
It was prying a lid of emotions that I try to keep neat and stacked just like that wood.
Somehow that little woodpile makes me wonder just how much the human heart can hold without spilling over.