Now that it is Father’s Day, and I am once again thinking about my dad. He once built a fireplace which added extra warmth in the old house during the many cold Wisconsin winters. And stretching on the couch, feeling it’s warming glow, and watching the dancing flames was one of my favorite things to do on a cold winter evening. I’m still going through my photos to find a pic of it and when I find it, I will post that too.
There once was a fireplace built by my father’s skillful hands
And not another was like it; not one in all the land.
It filled an entire wall, an awesome sight to be behold;
Made of gray and white bricks and many large stones.
The sight with all its warmth invited and having nowhere else to go,
I’d gladly sit and watch the flames emitting that brilliant orange glow.
I’d hear the crackles, watch sparks fly and see the flames stretching high.
Only to shrink again, to almost smolder but never really die.
The crimson flames would rise again trying to reach higher than before.
The swaying fingers had a life of their own as they shrank and rose some more.
As a young girl I felt warm and safe there and deeply loved
As if someone was kindly watching over me from above.
Often at night I’d stretch out reading a favorite book and soon fall asleep.
I wonder how often mom or dad tiptoed by that fireplace quietly checking on me?
That old house stands empty and the fireplace but a dark shadow of its previous days.
I hope another young girl will one day watch and rest in its warm and brilliant sway.