It feels like my whole life was kindling. An exaggeration, I know, but yesterday, I saw a picture of an old fence, like one that surrounded graves 120 years ago. And I remembered that I had had a piece of fencing like that, something ex-Pat and I found on a trip to Leadville, that had been waiting for years to become an integral piece of art. That became nothing more than kindling.
My giant, ancient, solid, five-inch thick wooden door, resting on iron rods, a much-desired, terribly weathered birthday present that I used as a potting table, now reduced to just those pieces of iron. Nothing more than kindling.
The K Tree, an ornamental pear that we planted when K was born, that was split by a heavy spring snow and yet still survived to bloom each spring, now a charred shadow of its former self. Nothing more than kindling.
When the Texas Baptist Men were sifting through the ashes, one said, “You must have had a lot of combustible stuff in here.” I suppose I did. Waist high stacks of pages of ashes marked where my bookshelves were, where K’s bookshelves were, all disintegrating at the slightest touch of my finger. Dust in the wind. Nothing more than kindling.
And another fire, in Boulder yesterday, burning trails my feet know well. Mercifully, the winds were not what they were on December 30, so other communities were spared the fate of mine. But it raised the specter of that day. K knew about this fire before I did – she had friends who were evacuated – but didn’t want to stress me out by telling me.
I’m maudlin today, despite the warm weather, as we’re having troubles with our well at the Retreat and I feel like I’ve moved into the house in that ‘80s movie, The Money Pit. I’m sullen and sulky and cannot even take a bath for comfort. I’m feeling like it’s all somewhat pointless. Because in the long run, after all, I’m really nothing more than kindling.


Today’s gratitudes:
- MKL, today and every day
- Blankets
- Lots of birdsong
- The road to the Final Four
2 comments
Comments feed for this article
March 27, 2022 at 3:23 pm
Paula
Amy, yesterday was hard for you I understand but you were a balm to me. That doesn’t change your circumstances I know, but you changed mine. Sometimes where you are in life doesn’t make sense to you, but you are helping someone else- where they are- and you don’t even have a clue. I know you couldn’t take a bath yesterday, but you know there will be baths in the future just waiting to comfort you. I have never been in a fire, but I have been in a flood and have lost many, many precious memories, that I haven’t thought about in years-but now are tearing my heart apart. For what it’s worth, I am very thankful that you are my neighbor.
March 27, 2022 at 4:06 pm
Seasweetie
Thank you, Paula, and I’m so glad that our time together yesterday was a comfort to you in some way. I hope your thoughts about your losses in that long ago flood are a little less painful than when they were fresh. ❤️