I woke up thinking of you, the man scribbled in his notebook. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell you. The last embers crackled in the wood stove as he sat in the sunken recliner. The morning was chill, and the fog lay low and thick on the ground. Fall was quickly fading before a strong winter.

I wonder if you ever think about me, too. But never enough to move the block of ice holding my fear frozen. Easier to write and wander. Always easier to dream than to live. Worn journals and open books lay across a board, scarred kitchen table. Heavy wood held together with thick steel bolts. It could have served in an old lumber camp. These things aren’t made anymore. Wood from forests long gone. Out of time from lost worlds. Ones that faded photographs and looping script spoke of. The man sat nursing his cup of tea. No mirrors lived in the cabin, but he knew he didn’t present a pretty sight. Not anymore.

Still, curiosity remained as he weaved her initials against the ceramic mug. He was too lost in memories to hear the first birds of the day and the nattering of the chipmunks that followed.

Too lost to remember what still lay before him.

I would have been a different man, given the chance.