One Life for an Eternity of Smiles

The life created every evening breathes, laughs, and howls; it crackles, spits, and hypnotizes with its flames, and draws one in to ponder and imagine. Pictures are crafted as it grows bigger and stronger, whether it be back in time where memories immerse or to the future of prospects and dreams.

It can hold you there in the moment where there is nothing apart from you and it, the red-hot whip catching you by surprise as it guzzles and devours, fragmented rubies glowing in a furnace of treasure burning, scorching embers evolving into jewels and gems.

It starts early evening when the logs are collected from a shed at the bottom of the garden, all stacked and piled, ready to be chosen. The best ones are hidden underneath as the dampness from the November rain resonates on the spindly sticks found on top.

The life of an old Ash tree has come to an end, its soul living on, it provides warmth and lights up a room that seems neglected, almost dead in the winter months, one life for another, the rotten branches giving comfort, smiles, and idle chatter, especially on Sunday afternoons.

A splinter from the wood finds its way into my finger as I decide upon a log that has been perfectly cut with no bark on, just a golden layer, pure and most importantly, dry. I stare at the shard, lodged across my index finger; I try to squeeze it out with my thumb, but in vain.

The wheelbarrow is almost full now, logs, twigs and pieces of bark that have fallen onto the ground are gathered for making the base of the fire. More logs are collected, trying to seek out the smaller, drier pieces, preferably with no mold on. I’m in luck as I find a couple of hidden blocks and hastily throw them onto the pile.

Back at the house, I enter the drawing room, lifeless and draughty. I scrunch up a newspaper into balls and lay them carefully in the grate, followed by placing the bark and twigs I found on the ground of the shed into a wigwam shape. I’m aware of the whistling wind in the chimney, my fingertips black from the ink of the newspaper, as I lean one last log onto the wigwam, making sure that it doesn’t collapse before striking a match.

I watch the paper dissolve into miniature fireballs under the sudden burst of flames. Snap, crackle, pop, the smoke wafts upwards into the chimney where I imagine the spirit of the Ash tree making its way into the heavens, leaving behind its broken body. For a moment, the flames die down as the newspaper is engulfed before the steady rising of orange horses.

I’m fixated on the rising flames, and am satisfied with the base of the fire, which is the most important part; without this, you have nothing, just disappointment. It starts to roar, the smoky smell of the wood greets me, a slight tickle at the back of my throat, my eyes completely drawn to the colors of the flames, oranges, blues, and even a faintness of lilac appears.

A warmness is extracted, winter chills evaporated, the heat slowly creeping to all four corners, satisfaction followed by dreaminess as it holds me before its heart, I’m taken somewhere else.  

Silence is upon, just the crackling of the fire and sound of the wind outside, which resembles the distant ocean. I’m aware of the rocking horse's glare, its eyes following me, the parrot made from China, and the aftermath of laughter, jigsaws, and cigars, as I come out of the trance and reconnect with the moment.

It started with an Ash tree, seed, stem, leaves, branches — a life that was forever giving, and when it was time to be sacrificed in its age of rot and vulnerability, all was not lost, for it is born again every evening in the drawing room.