She had a firepit in her old backyard, the kind that was a
wide metal pan and sat on three legs. We frequently lit a fire at night
under the huge shade tree with its gorgeous green leaves and
roots that were cracking the concrete deck.
We would sit on the white wicker loveseat and have a glass of wine
while the fire crackled.

“I hate wicker,” I told her not for the first time as we sat down to
to enjoy the evening. She laughed. We kissed. Another time,
she leaned her head into my shoulder and fell asleep while I looked
into the flames, took a deep breath and felt the tension
disappear from my body.

The tree is gone, having been yanked out by the new residents. Those new residents are gone too and have taken their un-neighborly attitudes with them.

The wicker loveseat is gone but the firepit is now in our new yard, next door, and burns on occasion when it’s warm enough or we have visitors and we take a moment. It was lit on her birthday when we had a house party full of almost 50 people. The firepit was on the grass and burned so hot that it toasted the grass underneath it, and that grass would not grow again for another year.

What is in our home is the same, warm, relaxing fire that we are both stoking
with the knowledge from age and experience that tell us:
if you don’t stoke the fire, it will go out.

We do stoke it, daily, with a laugh, a meal, a kiss, a smile, a goofy
laugh, with our girls knowing they are in a safe space. Sometimes it burns big,
other times not so much, but it is always there. We are leaving this home soon,
but I think that we will bring a firepit with us just like we are taking our whole home
and planting it wherever we go.