Nobody Was Near the Lantern

Nobody was near the lantern. About the waist a waiter slightly bent. Leaning forward. A look in his eyes. Looking out the window. At the calm snow that slowly swirled to fall upon the aspens, upon the ground, upon the little river, to which it drowned. Adding mass.

To pour the wine.

The cook was cooking. Could be seen through the little pass through window of the kitchen. Cooking in a fury did he seem. Steam rising and swirling, slightly rising, to be funneled through the roof. That the day should never end did we work ourselves, making warmth. Hot blood, warm life.

Into my mouth I slid. Chew the asparagus. Enjoy its texture. Still plenty of butter on the table. The branches of the aspen were bending under the weight of the snow. Some could break and fall and we were ready for the outcome.

For the longest time. Still had not said anything. I had pointed at the menu and the waiter had understood. Yet still by the table. Slowly pouring the wine into my glass. As if to enjoy the wine himself.

The day would never end. Making warmth. Cold outside.

A man came in. The man was dripping wet and he stood by the lantern. The lantern gave him warmth just a little.

Who was he?

To break my silence I said, “Who is that man?”

My voice was dark-sounding. Barren. Meaning more than I meant. Words that could bounce about, echo, hurry and delay.

Home that night. Where was my home? We had a bed, a kitchen, a living room. A fireplace. We were comfortable. A wreath on the door. A stick of bamboo. The stick was for no certain purpose. I had it by the fire and sometimes had used as a poker. While gazing upon the fire. Spellbound by the fire. Its warmth, its appearance, its movement.

The fire was like time.