It's pretty cold, for a Saturday.
Couldn't seem to get warm enough, I stocked the fire with whatever cord wood I had in the house, but it still wasn't enough.
The kids were complaining, they were cold. My wife, too, blaming me for not stocking enough wood.
Too chilly to go outside, to get more. Cutting down a tree would be a futile effort, I would die of hypothermia before I got half-way through the trunk.
Kids are still complaining, wife still nagging.
I busted up a kitchen chair, fed it to the fire. Still not enough.
The dining room table went next. It was fine, for a little while.
A dresser, a bureau, the china cabinet. They all fed the fire's ravenous and unquenchable appetite, the flames wavering, signalling to me to bring more.
And more, and more.
The kids were complaining, the wife was nagging.
But now it's finally warm enough, I can feel the toasty sensation of a raging fire unclenching my every nerve, relaxing every fiber in my being.
I yell for the kids and my wife to come, enjoy the fire.
But I forgot. They already are.
Yep, pretty cold, for a Saturday.
© Copyright 2016 writersbug. All rights reserved.