Conversations We’ve Had by the Fire

It was December of winter break, my junior and your senior year. You would leave before Christmas, to spend the holiday with your family, but it felt like the perfect timing for you to meet mine. We sat comfortably in my childhood home, in the warmth of the fireplace, as the night fell and the New Hampshire temperature dropped even lower; with the sight of a snowstorm out my living room window, we were happily trapped inside. 

My father, generally a man of few words, briefly walked in to poke the logs beneath the flames, before leaving us alone again. As he walked away to rejoin my mother in the kitchen, I thanked him and he nodded. He had a quiet presence, speaking up through mumbles and hums, still managing to define this corner of the house. My favorite corner, especially in the winter months. 

I’m sure that fireplace looks different now, years later; though I remember it so clearly that, I swear, I can visualize the intricate lines between each brick, bordering the fire that illuminated one side of your face – the side that, without fail, remained turned towards mine.

You told me it was nice, hearing my parents’ conversations, occasional laughter hovering in the background. I knew what you really meant. From the fragments of information that you had already revealed, even back then, I could sense that your childhood wavered between a fragile silence and too much noise. 

As we spoke, my mother moved to the grand piano that she inherited from her own father. She sat there often, learning Joni Mitchell or Billy Joel songs, the melodies planting themselves in all of our heads for days to come. 

While she played, you said that my life had a soundtrack, with a slight smile, and I wondered if sitting in my living room revealed a contrast that you didn’t know existed. 

Listening to the wind and watching snowflakes cling to the windows, my mind drifted back in time, through the changing seasons, landing on the day we met. It was April, and spring had begun to gradually creep in, a few bright days of warmth scattered here and there. We sat on a bench and watched our mutual friends throw a football around until you finally worked up the courage to ask for my name. Now, sometimes, I wish you never did. 

After a few glasses of red wine, I told you that you fit perfectly into every area of my world. This became clear in that corner of my childhood home, on the burgundy sofa, across from my great-grandmother’s matching chairs, next to the wall of red brick. 

---

Ten months later, and you spent Thanksgiving with us, and we sat by the fire again, a senior and a college graduate. You wondered if you should take your philosophy degree and apply to law school, or if you should just find a job in sales. Selfishly, I mostly wondered if you would stay nearby.

For someone so eager to get away from their hometown, you had stayed awfully close. I asked if you would consider packing up your apartment, leaving our college town, and moving to one of the places you dreamed of. You spoke so highly of Oxford and Edinburgh and Dublin and Rome for someone who had never visited. One night, I dreamt of you packing your suitcase and boarding the plane without a goodbye, as I remained in my childhood living room. I refrained from telling you this. 

I asked you where you saw yourself in a year, and I hoped you didn’t catch onto my shaking voice. You said you didn’t want to leave your sister. You didn’t need to add like my mom did, but I knew that’s what you really meant. Instead, you said that ninth grade had already proven that high school did not suit her. She’s an old soul, you told me. 

My parents wandered in and out of the living room every hour or so, and I loved to watch you interact with them, every conversation working to intertwine my past with the present. You complimented the new vintage picture frames, which they had added to the room since your last visit, and they thanked you, knowing they would soon pack them into boxes. 

They didn’t know I had overheard them talking about the move, about how they couldn’t afford to stay in our home for much longer. During one of their trips to the grocery store, when I knew for certain they were out of earshot, I told you that it would probably be our last time sitting by that fireplace. You reassured me that my home would still be your favorite place to visit, wherever it was. 

---

My college graduation was tainted by the knowledge that I was going home for the very last time. With my mother’s framed paintings taken down and placed in boxes, the walls were more bare than I had ever seen them. With the move, our house would become my parents’ house.

We had to give away the grand piano, as my parents had no hope of wedging it into the corner of our new living room. It would move to my aunt’s house, and my mother could visit whenever she wanted, even just to sit at that piano. I wondered if the holidays would become the only season in which I would hear my mother play. I wondered if songs would stop getting stuck in our heads, collectively, for days at a time. I vocalized neither of these concerns. 

Before I left school, you told me you had an early birthday present for me, and I reminded you that we had dinner plans on my actual birthday, in just two weeks. You told me you knew that, but you couldn’t wait, and you handed me a letter. You said you could express yourself better that way, claiming that your written words tend to come across better than your spoken ones. I nodded, but I never agreed. I loved all your spoken words just the same. 

I read it when I got home, once we were apart, because I could already picture how red your face would get if you sat there, watching me read. At the end, you wrote, I know you’re leaving behind a part of your past, but keep in mind that we still have the future. At the sound of my father’s footsteps, I wiped away a tear, and he walked in without notice. A moment of privacy you and I shared, even without you physically there, sitting beside me. 

With your handwriting in my firm grip, I said goodbye to the familiarity of the brick mantel surrounding the flames.

---

Over two years passed and December rolled around again. I sat in my parents’ house, a condo, further from the center of town. As I waited for you to knock on the door, I sat on the sofa with my book, struggling to focus on the words; instead, my gaze shifted around the room, the same furniture and picture frames in a less familiar space. The living room still had a fireplace, the mantel painted white, replacing the brick I had grown so attached to. 

When I opened the door for you, I could tell you seemed just as distracted. I couldn’t seem to stare at a collection of words printed across a page, you couldn’t seem to look me in the eyes. Rather than your usual spot on the sofa, next to me, you chose to sit on one of my great-grandmother’s velvet chairs. 

I thought that moving back home, out of our shared apartment, would help us. Instead, you must have realized that my home was no longer your favorite place to visit. 

I guess our change of location encouraged your change of heart. Tell me, if we were in Oxford or Edinburgh or Dublin or Rome, would you still feel the same? 

I never really asked you that. I didn’t want to be convinced that I’m just no longer your favorite person to see. 

Grasping for straws, I suggested that we spend a summer backpacking across Europe. We could even live there for a year. Or, if you’d rather, you could go to law school after all, wherever you chose, and I could keep working from home. I told you that we could live all of our own dreams before our shared ones. 

I tried to hint that we weren’t your parents. 

I guess I didn’t get the message across, and your lack of faith in us shattered my own.

One side of your face was still lit by the fire, but it was no longer turned in my direction, your green eyes drifting between the flames and the hardwood floor.

Grace Holland, ’26