Throw another log on: EMBERS

 

I’m sprawled comfortably warm on the carpet in front of my favorite place in the house, the 3 sided open fireplace that my daddy designed for us.  He is not an architect or builder but has great design and common sense. The black mesh screen around the flagstone is complementary to the colors in the stone. Mom, Dad, my husband Charlie and our two teens love not just the fireplace but everything about the house and more importantly, love each other.

 

The rear of our home faces a well kept eighteen hole private golf course. There are lakes and hills and manicured greens. Daddy has a comfortable Eames lounger with a square table beside it. On there he keeps his new binoculars Mom gave him for his birthday. He’d rather watch the duffers go by or the lowest handicappers than watch t.v., read, do anything else, except play golf. Since he broke his hip last year he plays vicariously just watching others, never complaining.

 

Now it is winter and he sees children belly flopping on the icy hills. I find my own peace looking at the beaten egg white fairway, the limbs of our black walnut tree laden with snow. And/or I sprawl on the carpet and watch the logs catching fire, smoke going up the flue. The flames begin to crackle. Little bits of bark fly up, twist and turn, make kaleidoscope patterns as they fall back into the flames. Today a piece of bark, not much larger than a quarter, flared a moment and became a face, a face I remember from my childhood, Harold Weinstein. I wanted to reach inside the metal screen to save Harold but he died before my eyes. Oddly, he had died in France on D Day. What brought him to me so unexpectedly?

 

The fire needs more nourishment. Three small very dry logs are in the basket near the door. I am reluctant to get up for them but do and they catch on quick. ‘Dad, look, look.’ He comes over and asks, ‘Look at what?’  ‘Look At that little piece of wood near the end of the of the logs. See, it is starting to rise. That’s Mother’s face. Isn’t she lovely dressed in red?’ ‘Should I make an appointment for you with my friend Warren Schneider. He’ll do me a favor and take you this afternoon.’ Dad may be serious which is okay as I am serious, too.‘Daddy, I don’t need a shrink. I’m telling you the little pieces of bark look just like real faces to me. Don’t you see any.’ A little flame separates from the newly lit logs and whispers, ‘Lois, Lois, remember me? Miss Ashley taught us in the fourth grade.’

 

I do feel foolish but answer, ‘Joanie, don’t leave so fast. If you can stay, maybe Darla will appear.’ Daddy gets up, opens the screen and rolls the logs over so they will burn faster.

 

They turn to ashes and burn my eyes. My tears put out the fire.