STOKING THE FIRES Gretchen Fletcher We sat on cast-off kitchen chairs before the furnace that warmed our house, my father and I, at six o'clock (long before my mother rose), he in threadbare flannel, I in blue chenille. Robed philosophers, we stared into the mouth of the inferno, questioning reality and contemplating the possibility that other lifeforms might exist in some cold corner of the universe. Like Vulcan at his forge, he opened the door of the furnace that warmed our house to add another shovelful of coal. Sparks flared up and flew above the flames, and the fire's light made his face glow like that of a god. Copying him, I propped my feet on a cardboard box and tipped my chair back on two legs, loosening my attachment to the earth, our cellar, and reality. "So, what do you think?" he'd ask. And, "Could it be?" Then when we smelled Mother's bacon, we put our chairs back on four legs and returned to the reality of her kitchen. Now I've moved away from the house warmed by the furnace. And he's dead. I still don't know the answers, and I can't put out the fire he stoked into sparks.

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