Kinder by the Fireplace
A short story on the things that make life worth the living.
We live in a stately home, many bedrooms, many windows, but the crux of our abode is on the bottom floor of three, noiseless, offering the intimacy of soft shadows and memories that linger affectionately, tangibly.
Everyone was always in a rush—going somewhere or coming from. The dogs were always barking, the phone ringing, the front door opening, the backdoor screen rattling closed.
No one seemed to ever sit, talk to or even look at each other. The only silent moment was late into the night, seconds after the old grandfather clock chimed midnight, when he would come out of his room.
He made his way to the den, an ambient light beckoning from the Victorian lamp bought by his wife. It sat on the small glass side-table. Each night he’d caress its mosaic petals, his fingers running along the golden lines separating them all; he seemed deep in thought, perhaps reminiscent. I watched him carefully as he sat quietly in his robe and slippers, his sleek, silk black pajamas announcing his elevated tastes. He positioned the laced English pillow with the bluebird centered, a gift from his wife, and, following a previous command, placed it behind his lower back—to “help with the discomfort.”
Then he crossed his legs, as gentlemen will do.
The way he carefully turned the pages in his book, with the fire’s light reflecting off of his spectacles was a scene comforting anyone near. The air was warm, the room’s gentle nature welcomed any visitor, but he no one ever came, but I.
He did not seem lonely, rather content after anticipating the silence after each day’s disorder. The fire was set to rage for several hours but it’s hush was captivating and often times he’d set his book down to look into the flames, and return to a place a thousand lifetimes away.
I sat next to him, on the arm of the stately chair, the high-back concealing us from any wanderer in the house; but there never were any, as they all slobbered in their own rooms, their bodies counting the minutes until the chaos began at the sound of shrill morning bells on the boxes they spoke through.
It was here, with him, I learned the possibility of obtaining an inner peace, of bearing true kindness. A man who had lived as head of them all, now unable to gain a moment of their attention, but moved without regret, without a hint of bitterness in his tender voice. He spoke to me in low, calm tones and held my gaze long enough on those long nights to confirm that he meant no one any wrath for their looking him over in his elder days. I nestled in the crook of his arm at times as he pat me, and other times slept soundly at his feet, the fireplace to my back, on the thick carpet she’d lain down.
Hiding in the daylight from everyone and the emptiness that lay between them, I awaited patiently each day for our evening bond.
I grew older with him, satisfied in spirit with our time spent and in body, with the love spent,
until the day came He met his wife in the armchair, me snoring while. And I followed soon thereafter contentedly, having found the meaning of life, not in the daily bustle, but in the kindness by the fireplace.
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