Eternal Flame

The flickering flames in the fireplace were unable to provide the light and warmth I desired. Sitting on the overstuffed and overused sofa with an unopened book to my left and steaming Earl Grey to my right, I stared into the weak fire.

Matteo made the best fires, bright enough to read by and hot enough to warm your soul. His fires were perfect. Perfect amount of fuel and air, perfect amount of tending to and nurturing of.

Unfortunately, this fire was not one of Matteo's. This fire was dim and cold, impotent and weak. Not only could I not read by the light of it, but I could barely see into the shadows past the hearth. No matter, I knew this room and its contents like my own body. I could describe, in detail, everything in here blindfolded.

On the mantel was an engraved picture frame the grandkids had made for us on our golden anniversary, and a pair of silver candlesticks Aunt Janie gave us on our wedding day. There was a small, red wine stain in the corner, where Matteo once laughed so hard, he spilled. Behind me stood three floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to the top and double-deep with vintage books we found in a hundred different used bookstores over the years. Matteo made them by hand, so I would have plenty of room for my obsession.

Also, in the dark, was a small, white schnoodle snoring at the foot of the empty leather recliner.

A shiver ran up my neck and into my frizzy, grey curls.

That would never happen if Matteo were here; I was always warm when he was around.

When we first met, I didn’t know how to make a real fire. I thought you just flipped a switch on the heater, or bumped up the thermostat, to get warm. I had no idea how much went into building and maintaining a real blaze, but Matteo knew all about it.

He knew about wood: Softwoods (pine, cedar, and fir) take less time to season (dry out), burn faster, and have a pleasant scent. Hardwoods (oak, maple, and cherry) burn longer and cleaner. He knew which woods were available when, where, and for what price, and always had an ample storage of fuel to last us throughout the cold, hard winters of rural Michigan.

He knew the perfect ratio of air and carbon to ignite the spark and keep it burning. He tended the fire meticulously, from the strike of match to glow of coals, always adding more wood, shifting the structure, bellowing the heat.

Matteo tended to me much the same way.

We met my second year of college. Although, he claims he noticed me the first day of my first year. He was an engineering student but always claimed he studied me.

Every one of our dates was a finely tuned, mathematical formula for him: He would provide my favorite things (to do, eat, and drink), ask me a hundred questions about myself, then listen intently. It never changed from the first date until the end.

Within six months, he knew everything about me. The good, the bad, and the ugly, yet he loved it all. All I knew about him was that he was handsome, kind, and smart. I loved him, and he adored me. We were married within the year, and I have never regretted it.

Like his fires, he was an attentive partner. If I needed the world to be a little less dark, he would light up the room with his laughter. If I was cold, inside or out, he would warm me with a look. If I grew faint, he bellowed encouragement until my passion was ablaze. If I started to lose control, he would brush back my fears, bank my worries, and put me to bed.

Matteo tended to me every day in every way.

My tea was no longer steaming. My book still sat unread. The room smelled of pine, old books, and the fading scent of Matteo’s cologne.

Last summer, he cut, stacked, and packaged wood in small, easy to carry bundles. Softwoods to “make starting a fire easier” and hardwoods to burn well into the dark night.

Matteo’s dog whimpered in its sleep, and I knew why it was sad. I was sad too.

Carefully placing my slippered feet on the rope rug, I slowly stood. My swollen ankles popped as they took on the weight of my frail body, then my knees. My hips were silent but made themselves known, none the less.

Reaching for my hand-carved, ebony cane with custom finger grooves and small slot for my wedding ring, I accidentally woke the dog. There was a flash of disappointment on his goateed face when he realized it was just me.

Anyone under eighty-nine, could have been to the fireplace in three small steps. I needed seven slow shuffles.

Sliding the protective chain barrier aside, I stared at the weak flames. It was dying. It needed tending to. Using the special hearth tools, I bought Matteo for our thirteenth anniversary, I brushed back the ash and banked the coals. Crisscrossing a few more pieces of pine on the glowing center and gently placing two small pieces of oak on top. I used Matteo’s bellows to bring it back to life.

There was a spark, a flicker; a small flame, then another. It began to crackle and pop, right before the small boom that always made me jump. Magic, Matteo’s magic.

He knew what was needed when tending fires (and me).

I don’t remember a time without him. It is as if I didn’t exist before Matteo loved me.

Now that he’s gone, what will I do? Will I just fade away and die like an untended fire?

The schnoodle looked at me while resting its chin on the edge of its plush bed and gave a human-sized sigh.

Looking past him to the bookshelves Matteo made, I thought about how we read most of the books together (some multiple times), but that there were a few gems that we found a rainy days at the Friends of Library Book Sale that were waiting for me to decide whether I would read without Matteo.

Unsure whether I had the energy to start a new book or walk the dog, I turned to tend the fire.