The three of us ...

We sit next to the fire and I gaze into the flames watching the patterns and shapes swirling and flickering; a dance.  We built this fire, crouching down to brush out the cinders then rolling and twisting newspaper sheets into knotted balls and laying them in the fireplace.  Pieces of coal are then stacked over and a small piece of waxy white firefighter is propped between the paper.  My fingers are black from the dust and the newspaper print.  It is my turn to strike the match and watch the paper catch.  Ritual complete. 

We sit on the old leather couch, battered and worn. I curl up next to my granny and wait.  She is sipping from a delicate tea cup, a strange mix of perfume and smoke wafts over.  Hands washed and a soft blanket tucked round my legs, I hold a mug of cocoa.  The sound of three clocks ticking, all at slightly different times, and the gentle crackle and hiss of the fire lulls me into a sleepy calm.  Granny puts her cup down, a slight rattle as it touches the saucer.  She rests her hand over one of my feet.
 
We both look over to the shelf to the right of us. A photograph is in pride of place. A young man looks out at us, smiling; happy. He is in a small rowing boat, sitting with his arms resting on his knees, hair swept back and warm dark eyes gazing at us, a joyous grin on his face.  My granny looks at him with such sadness that I can feel that grief reaching into me through my foot and traveling up to my heart. He is my uncle, part of my life, never ageing and those kind dark eyes following me as I cuddle closer to my granny. 

We, the three of us, sit there in silence.