EMBERS

There was a wood-burning stove in the kitchen,

the one my cherished aunt used for more than fifty years

for cooking food and thawing mittens. She’d let me fill

the fire box under the heavy metal plates where pots

would boil and frying pans sizzle – a simple stove,

cast iron strong. It’d warm the house – first floor

and most of the second. Talk about lasting value,

I couldn’t see how it’d ever break down –

nothing to plug in or hook up, no wires, gauges, gas lines,

or built-in electric clock. A gaumy egg-timer, mason jar

half-filled with wooden matches, and wind-up clock sat

in the center of a chrome and Formica table

flanked by matching chrome and vinyl chairs –

three that matched, duct-taped and old as the stove.

No way that stove could fit through any door in the house

(Back then, I thought it was there before the place was built).

Still, it was the only home I knew that had one

for cooking, a perplexing semblance of our family’s

privation. Even we had a used electric range,

stained as it was with a bad element.

Funny how the things she cooked smelled so good

and tasted even better, how stoves and people go

away, but their value stays behind, rekindling

and radiating warmth, like when I stoked the embers.

By P. D. Kline

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