Father’s Fireplace
By John Herlihy

My father bought the house because of the grand fireplace;
Oh, how he loved the warm glow of the fire upon his face.
The primitive stone structure dominated the entire room.
Rather artfully adorned to the ceiling with a chimney flume.
As a large family, we happily gathered around the hearth,
The flames of the fire reaching Heaven by a sinuous path.

The oaken mantle featured photos and the occasional trophy;
The yawning enclosure gave way to a deep, darkened cavern.
Blackened by steady use with dust, soot and encrusted grime,
That spanned years and recalled the endless passing of time.
My father and the fireplace seemed to fuse together as one;
He the burning ember, the fireplace a source of perpetual fun.

Like a religious duty, he gathered his pine cones and cut logs,
Stacked in baskets next to a carpet placed down for the dogs.
With snow falling down outside in the chill of the winter night,
A log fire in the fireplace proved indeed to be a warming sight.
Spitting hot sparks and bits of fire into the room with aplomb,
The fire assured a festive mood that could weather any storm.

The movement of the fire seemed fueled akin to animal breath,
Impersonating a living presence embodying warmth and heft.
A fire is a thing as wild as anything you might find in a jungle;
The animal light animated the room as if from a tiny bundle.
There is a purity to fire that reaches down into the core of things;
This was the hearth of our home with the benevolence it brings.

We children were drawn into its mystery, its heat on our faces;
We sat excitedly upon the carpet, each in our appointed places.
Sweet anticipation stuck in our throats, with nothing contrived;
We waited all day for this moment; the time had finally arrived.
With our metal sticks in the fire, we roasted our marshmallows,
The charcoal cream puffs burned fingers; the fire tingled our toes.

Of course, such things didn’t always go the way that they could;
We left the little white puffs in the fire longer than we should.
Sometimes, the soft marshmallow balls quickly singed heavy black,
These we quickly threw out the window for the birds out back.
The aim was to cook the temperamental things with a black crust;
We slobbered the creamy interior until our stomachs nearly bust.

Distant memories live in the past; but they never truly die.
As I think back to those childhood years, I merely utter a sigh.
My father loved a burning fire; he was devoted to the fireplace;
With pine cones and logs, he made our hearth a unique place.
In dreams, I see my father’s face making ready to build a fire,
In a time when he filled the hearts of us kids with simple desire.