Fire Season

DENA TAYLOR

My brother and I do this 
for her, our mother 
He lifts the split wood 
into the wheelbarrow 
I stack it in the shed 
leaving no interspatial holes 
She sits among the trees 
in a white plastic chair 
and talks to us of our father 
while my daughter helps us 
handing me the logs one by one 
our gloved hands working together

Later we bring more chairs 
admire our work, praise his woodshed 
We talk carefully, lovingly about him 
and sometimes we laugh 
The hole of his absence hurts us all 

Not long ago on the other side 
of the big redwood where we sit 
we put his ashes in the ground 
near those of his mother 
poured Old Taylor whiskey 
slowly over the top 
then drank the rest ourselves 
The time since he died 
is full of things I want to tell him

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