What the Fire Held

---

The cabin was his idea. A weekend away. No plans, no signal—just space.

He offered it like a remedy, something that might keep the pieces from slipping further apart. I said yes because saying no would have meant acknowledging the unraveling.

He drove. I watched the trees change from copper and rust to bare limbs as the road narrowed around us. We hadn’t fought, not exactly. Still, something in the way we moved had changed—cautious and distant. As if we were circling something fragile or already broken.

The flat tire hit just past the turnoff. A dull thud. Then that dragging sound, rubber unraveling itself. He braked hard. Gravel scattered. He got out. I stayed in the car.

I heard him haul the jack and spare from the trunk. The jack hit the pavement with more force than necessary. Three bolts came loose. The fourth didn’t. He leaned his weight into it. Then a sharp slam—his hand hitting metal—and a low curse I heard through the closed window.

He shook out his fingers like it wasn’t the worst pain of the week. It hurt. We both knew that. But that wasn’t the point. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

The cabin was smaller than I’d pictured: one room, one stove, and a front door that stuck. We didn’t unpack our things; we simply walked down to the lake. Near the trees, a fire pit sat half-collapsed, its stones blackened and sunken. Someone had once built it with care, but it didn’t look like it would last another winter.

He started rebuilding it. Brushed ash away with his jacket sleeve. Shifted the stones like it mattered. I stood off to the side, hands buried in my sleeves, and watched him stack the wood too tightly. He struck a match. It died. Struck another. I offered my lighter. He didn’t take it. It wasn’t about the fire.

At last, the fire caught. Slowly, its flames rose, casting a stubborn warmth over us. Across from me, he sat with outstretched hands—a silent plea for comfort. His eyes remained fixed on the restless, flickering glow. In that heavy silence, each unspoken moment deepened the distance between us.

That night, he lay facing the wall, while I stared up at the exposed, creaking beams. The cabin reeked of smoke— just that raw, stale odor. Before dawn, I stumbled from bed, lit the stove, and pulled yesterday’s sweatshirt over my head.

I rifled through my purse and found a pen and a crumpled scrap of paper—a small invitation to express unspoken words. I sat by the window, smoothed the paper, and began writing, letting my thoughts flow. Later, he emerged, half-asleep with disheveled hair. He made coffee, set down two mugs, and quietly stood behind me.

“Is that yours?” he asked, nodding at the creased page.

I nodded. He didn’t push further. The old coffee maker hummed steadily. He handed me a mug that was too hot to hold—I took it anyway. Then he leaned over to read my words. When his fingers brushed my shoulder, I caught myself leaning in slightly, he did too.

I hadn’t planned on writing a poem, but that’s exactly what it became.

---

What the Fire Held
By Kerry Ann Wiley

The wind moved—
not against, but through—
what warmth tried to hold.
A body trembled,
but not from cold alone.
Then—closeness,
its weight both real and imagined.
The fire burned yellow,
and shades of yellow, and red—
colors that speak,
but do not stay.
Not all warmth lasts.
Some slips—ember by ember—
until only the outline remains.

---

I re-read the opening lines—

The wind moved,
not against, but through
what warmth tried to hold.

I started here because that’s what it felt like. That night, that silence. Like trying to hold something that was already slipping.

A body trembled,
but not from cold alone.

I wrote that line in my mind while pulling the blanket closer—not for the cold, but for the chill that lingers when someone is beside you yet never reaches out.

Then—closeness,
its weight both real and imagined.

I took my time with these lines, letting each word settle. The space between us was still there—a mix of closeness and absence. Sometimes, being near someone is just a reminder of what is gone.

The fire burned yellow,
and shades of yellow, and red—
colors that speak,
but do not stay.

I kept thinking about the soft reflections on his face—fleeting glints of flame that came and went. For a moment, they said something real. Sometimes, silence has its own way of speaking.

Not all warmth lasts.
Some slips, ember by ember,
until only the outline remains.

He reread that line, eyes pausing as if tracing a faded memory. His fingers returned to my shoulder, and in that touch, I felt a warmth I believed was lost. I hadn’t intended a metaphor, yet it spoke volumes.

That night, we watched the embers glow—neither facing each other nor apart. His face was briefly lit before the darkness reclaimed it, a reminder that some moments leave their mark.

By Sunday, the fire was out, but the stones held their shape. We moved around each other without urgency, folding blankets, brushing ash from our sleeves, zipping up what we had left undone.

The poem had caught like kindling, sudden and unplanned. A small burn that cleared space. I folded it once, then again, and slipped it into the glove compartment. Not to save it. Just to keep it from being lost.

Some fires rage. Some flicker. Some settle into embers. As we drove home, I watched the trees again, the color gone. His hand stayed near the gearshift, close to mine but not quite there. The cabin was his idea—a weekend away, space. We took it.

We built a fire. We didn’t say the things that might’ve split us open. Now, with the poem folded between us and the last of the warmth fading from our sleeves, I kept thinking about that line—some slips, ember by ember. Were we still burning, or just what the fire left behind?