To Build a Fire by Damien Barrett We had decided to go out to the old cabin one last time before the winter storms set in. On the way north, classical piano fought off the humdrum and setting sun. Getting to the cabin was always a chore, especially at times like these, when the colors have not only changed by fallen, leaving stark naked branches shivering in the stiff lake winds. Soon, I thought. Soon, we would be there; maybe then we can turn this mess around. Give it one more shot. Who knows--a roaring fire in a solitary cabin certainly couldn't hurt. Unloading the stuff from the car, I grimaced as the winds buffetted the trees lining the perimeter of the cabin. A storm was brewing over the lake and was headed this way in a hurry. I went inside and tried to start a fire. I tried several times to get the fire going--and keep it going. It just wasn't working. I piled newspapers and wadded-up pages of J. Crew catalogues under the wood. No use. The wood was too wet. I decided to look for some drier wood out back. The screen door slammed shut in the wind, making my heart race. I went around the side of the cabin. Here, it was still. The sturdy cabin warded off most of the wind from the lake and it was almost peaceful. It was getting dark, and with no moon, I knew that I needed to get that fire going. It was going to be dark soon, and cold. An owl hooted at me while I collected some dry kindling from the pile. His nest was in the big spruce on this side of the cabin. I had seen him before. My mind circled back to what had plagued me all the way up here. I pushed it away before it could grab hold. I heard what sounded like wolves far off in the hills. I thought of my old dog, Snitter, and all of the times we had spent out at this old cabin. He was gone now, but in many ways, Snitter was still here. We had been through a lot together, that dog and me. I missed him. Carrying the wood back into the cabin, I thought I heard the familiar snicker-snack of nails on the kitchen linoleum. My head whipped around, but I saw nothing. My old mind must've been playing tricks on me, I thought. Time to get that fire started. "Do we have any more matches?" "On top of the stove," said Mary. She always knew where everything was at. I both loved and hated that about her. God knows, she was the one who kept our house together when Billy died. So organized and blasted capable. Mary, mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow....I loved her. But now--well--I just don't know. My mind wandered while I was trying to get the fire started. I thought back again to the many days and nights I has spent out here at this old cabin--Mary and I on our honeymoon. Champaign, intimacies, sleeping bags...no sleep. Sunrises, silhouettes, sweaters. And all my hunting trips up here. I thought of the old shotgun my father had given me on my first hunting trip with him and my uncles. Where was that gun? In the chest under the loft, I think. I remember bagging my first deer, and being sick afterwards. This old cabin was the site of many firsts: my first deer, girl, sex, love, marriage, arguments, and death. I remember the screaming lights and tires on the asphalt to the hospital after my father's heart attack. He had been cleaning that old shotgun when it came... "How's the fire coming, dear?" "Good. I think the bastard's finally gonna catch now that the wood is dry." Yes, that has been the problem this whole time, I thought. For years, we had been trying to keep the fire going. But, now, I realized that it was more than just that. The wood was wet, and like all wet wood, it needed to be dried out a bit. And I wondered if the fire was still going. I looked over at Mary. She was in the what passed for the kitchen. She was wearing my favorite sweater, that ragged old blue cotton one that she hated and I loved. The lantern light reflected off her face and hair, and something deep down inside me awoke after years of hibernation. I suddenly remembered why I was with this woman in the first place and I looked up again, sighed, and smiled.