We stopped by the schoolhouse to attend to its mammoth, and beautifully fabricated, wood burner.
We could see our breath. We had dressed in layers and so lingered. The air warmed, slowly.
Upwelling currents made dust swirl and eddy. Particles turned somersaults to meander through shafts of illuminated volume.
To pass the time I studied, of all things, the floor. Four small holes, darkly stained and paired, showed where a desk had been moored. Eight more close by, and arranged in a circle, told of the placement of its partner. Twenty-four sets, revealed by tiny spaces.
Odors lingered in tucked away corners. Some synesthetic response tricked me into thinking I could hear young voices.
I am reminded of the importance of the past and of stewardship of its relics.