Fireplace

By: Sophia Gordon 

Love is a funny thing. 

It has no doors or windows. 

It has no structure or bones. 

There are loves like bonfires, turbulent and untamed. 

Some are like matches, a spark that can dwindle down quickly, leaving the match frayed and thin. 

But fireplaces feel like a space to come home to. 

They don’t require taming, rather roll a slow and steady burn. 

I picture blankets and warm lemon tea. 

I picture my grandparents telling stories, recollecting the memories of their first kiss on the doorstep of my grandma’s North Carolina home. 

I picture soft music and the soft glimmer of flames. 

I picture you. 

And when I picture home, I picture you. 

I picture windows and sunrooms where morning light creeps into the cracks of the wood floor. I picture soft pillows and sleepy eyes. 

I picture magnolia trees and climbing branches with mud covered knees. I picture you. 

I hope you’ll see that through my closed doors, there are windows where my sun peaks through. When clouds emerge, I sit on the worn leather couch, soft from the people who came through that North Carolina house to tell stories and laugh in their bellies. 

I hope that one day, I’ll have my own house with windows and fireplaces. I hope that when the light creeps in, I’ll sit on that linen chair and doze off to the sound of wind chimes. 

I hope that I’ll sit by my own fireplace, and watch the flames glitter. 

And I hope most of all, that I’ll do it with you. 

Because when I picture love, I picture you.