In a quiet, wood-panelled den,
there’s a low fire
crackling in the hearth.
Two leather armchairs
face the flames.
Don and Ben sit
with a small glass
of amber sherry each.

You know, Ben,
a lot of fireplaces….
I’ve known the best of them.
But this…
this one has a good heart to it.

There is a soul in a real fire.
Something
a manufactured flame
can never learn.

Right, exactly.
The phoney ones
spit and hiss.
No respect for the burn.
This wood here…
it’s loyal.
Like good oak.
I have a place,
incredible place,
where the oak burns
like slow gold.

My grandfather’s house
smelled of olive wood.
Old, gnarled branches
that remembered the sun.
The scent was like smoke
and memory mixed.

(Taking a slow sip.)
This sherry…
there’s a story in it.
Some sherries are just vinegar
wearing a fancy coat.
This one speaks up.
You can taste the years.

Spanish, I think, Don.
It has a quiet voice.
A nutty, whispering finish.

Whispering—I like that.
Good phrase.
It doesn’t shout.
It just… sits there,
being excellent.

A log settles,
sending up a shower of embers
that spin and fade.

There.
That little collapse.
When I was young,
I believed each spark
was a tiny story ending.

I like a clean end.
Not a messy one.
Wind, for instance,
is messy.
Whistling through cracks,
no discipline.
A fire like this…
it’s all agreement.
Everything burns on purpose.

Contained, but alive.
There is a dignity in that.

Dignity. Sure.
Look at that flame,
curling up
like it owns the air.
And maybe it does.

It asks for nothing.
Not even our attention.

(Nods, swirling
the last gold
in his glass.)
That’s the real thing.
No asking.
Just being.
We’ll do this again.
With my oak.
Oak that knows
how to hold a flame.

I would like to taste that smoke.

They fall quiet,
two old men
wrapped in warmth
and amber light,
speaking of everything
and nothing
as the fire hums
its slow,
familiar hymn.