Fakes

We have a new gas fireplace 

this winter. 

It turns on with a click, 

leaves no wood

chip mess, and cost us

a heap to buy and 

install. I can't put 

a kettle on the hob 

or depend upon it 

if the power goes out. 

I remember another fake fire when we

were newly wed with a need for 

romance after the babies were tucked

into bed. It didn't cost anything. 

The candles feebly flickered a brave flame 

off the cardboard box backed 

with shiny aluminum foil. Stacks of 

 rolled, brown construction paper logs,
wood grained with crayons burned

with orange flames looking like 

limp ocean waves because the cresting
 paper curls were ambitiously high. 

We lounged luxuriously - 

roasting marshmallows 

and toasting our love - 

warming the other's skin 

with kisses and hugs. 

I wonder two things: 

How did we cue up 

our imaginations 

so fast? And how did we 

manage to fit or have any fun

on that postage-stamp sized

sheepskin rug?