A gray crush of coals

When I was a kid my dad would build fires that raged for
hours. Propped upon the floor by elbows, chins cupped in
our hands, my sister and I would lie inches from the
fireplace. Caught in the hypnotic blue-tipped flame and

radiating heat, we were spellbound. He tended these fires
well. Kept them burning with poker and thong. He would
position and reposition oak logs. Provide vents for updrafts.
A hot fire is a clean fire he lectured my sister and me. And

never a wisp of smoke or residue escaped his fiery
destruction. As the blaze softened we’d move closer and
marvel at the embers of red and gold. It was easy to
imagine make-believe buildings. Engulfed in flame. Their

interiors consumed, leaving crimson skeletons charred and
gutted. A blue corona of St. Elmo’s fire. Turned to ash while
we watched. My father was a clean man who cared for
things, little for people. When cinders cracked and flew from

the grate to land on his carpet, his voice would freeze us: I’ll
be a son of a bitch! But eventually he’d lose interest, find
the news on TV or a second piece of pie from the night’s
dinner, long cooled. He would leave little evidence of

previously set fires. Along with the molten pitch that had
vaporized, each log and every piece of kindling was reduced
to a cold residue. When all he set fire to had completely
burned away, he would sweep its remains into a waiting

coffee can. Now I’m older than he was when he unknowingly
taught me his lessons. With wood, paper and kindling lying
on the hearth, I revisit the memories of a child grown old,
the remnants of my first fire in years now only a

gray crush of coals. The only sound I hear, the hiss of my
tears fallen on hot ash.