A shimmer of a memory,
distant as recalled by someone else,
yet vaguely remembered
every late December.

Finding a key under the carpet
in a smoke filled room,
standing on a stool to reach its keyhole,
cool night air and a warm blanket.

A log cabin burning to the ground, who lit the fire?
When growing up, no one mentioned the accident.
What accident?
You are dreaming lad.

Am I the only one that remember a dark secret that,
in the ashes of time, is forgotten
but for me
who was too young to understand?