I'm in the dining room. There is a fire in the wood stove. The stove with the damper that never worked and the handles that were broken when we arrived. The brokedown stove that kept my children warm so many nights after wet snow storms when the northwest wind came in behind, frigid, dry, bitter, relentless. Exposed to the elements in a way that the mainland suburb that my Maine has turned into would never feel.
The kids are in Portland, not here. I am wrestling with whether to take up gear or keep hauling. Cold rough weather presses in, but there are lobsters at a sweet ass price.
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