From Carol Shields' short story, "Fuel for the Fire", in her collection "The Orange Fish".
"One more?" Dennis asks us, and balances another pin delicately on its side in the glowing ashes. It flares, catches, glows, splits open and dies. I pay attention to it. Usually I'm so preoccupied, so busy, I forget about this odd ability of time to overtake us. Then something reminds me. Cemetaries--they stop me short, do they ever stop me short--and old buildings and tree stumps, things like that. And the sight of burning fires, like tonight, like right now, this minute, how economical it is, how it eats up everything we give it, everything we have to offer.
I'm tying up some loose ends, packing and finishing Christmas presents. We leave the city at 6 pm tonight. The holidays begin, and today it is snowing like snow in those glass shaker balls, the snowflakes drift and jump and fly around everywhere. My aim this break is to relax as much as possible. That will be tough given the stuffed itinerary, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I'll write again soon. Happy holidays and Merry Christmas!
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