A fuse of fire lit the horizon where December's bare mountains met the sky. A blinding flash of orange. Daybreak.

From my basement barstool I watched the tender peach sky. Slamming my book facedown I was mad because the characters were made of tissue paper, their words already forgotten. I wanted more from them. I wanted more from everything. I needed sleep.

Earlier that night I closed the bar while one last guy finished one last beer. He asked me, so, when you were a kid what did you dream of being when you grew up?

I really didn't dream about that, I said.

What?

I never dreamed that I would be a fireman or a nurse or married with a pretty dress or anything.

Why not?

I was always too worried about something. A test, the bus ride, homework, or getting fat. I never really outgrew my fear of opening the school door and starting first grade.

I don't believe that.

As if belief makes truth, I said.

What? What do you want now?

I want more from myself.

He thought about that. I watched exhaust hit the cold air around my tailpipes, the truck warming outside the front windows.

Got heat in that thing, he asked?

Some.

What does that mean?

Enough.

_____

But some things are not enough. Two weeks from now another year will finish. I ought to change my clothes and get off the barstool for this. I ought to take out the to-do list I have reread so many times it's almost see-through.

I found a little pocket of gold this year and a lesson: don't rip your life apart over the demons kid, they come and go as they please.