I am that wood-burning stove's number one fan.
Matt used to hate the feeling of electric, artificial heat but to me, a space heater seemed as good as a campfire. I get it now, Matt. It's night and day, as significant as the difference between sunshine and buzzing fluorescent light tubes.
When I first moved in back in early September, it was so friggin' hot that B and I retreated to our separate rooms for breezes through open windows, oscillating fans, and privacy. It was very dorm-like. I mentioned before that I missed being part of someone's comfortable backdrop. The cold weather has brought us out of our meat-locker rooms with the leaky turn-of-the-century windows and down to where B's been diligently keeping the stove blazing. And I just sit there on the couch, textbook-laden, laptop glowing, while B plays video games. Occasionally, a log will shift with a thud, spitting out a little cloud of sparks. It takes two people a while to stop being clumsy with each other, to stop stepping on each other's sentences and being too careful with words. I think he and I have finally become domestically at ease.
There are words in relief on the cast-iron stove, and all year it's just been a silent, arcane cipher. Today I looked it up, and it's a Norwegian blessing often inscribed on wood stoves. It translates to:
I rake my fire
Late in the evening
When the day is over
God let my fire
Never burn out
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