Great Big Pile
“Years are just moments in a great big pile” I tugged that lyric out of a Zach Bryan song on this sentimental snowy morning. Wood stove fires do that to me; watching the sky brighten from gunmetal to blonde and back to silver, listening to a random mix of morning songs, a toasted English muffin with peanut butter molten on top, a quart of orange juice and the dogs claiming as much of the couch as their furry bodies can cover, paws outstretched towards the crack of the caboose stove. Sentimental indeed. Not all things are good. The Check engine light is on in the car. Snow on the roads means an extra hour of driving. Power company wants to replace a couple poles and I am worried they are going to tear up the not yet frozen ground of my driveway with their trucks. My wrist is bothering me again, lumps of scar tissue don’t want to stretch. The tile project at work was not my best work; I was impatient and the walls were out of square. But most things are good. Warm house, a truck that