Firelight. MMD1

Dark grey stones set with mortar
Reflected absorbed heat from the fire at their center
A half log mantle ran across the width of the fireplace
Holding an old arched clock
The kind you wound with a key
The kind that chimed every fifteen minutes
Adding to it's song every time
Until it hit the top of the hour
When it would play all the notes again in order
Then solemnly count the hours
With a monotonous single note
Played again and again
Until you were sure what time it was

Grandfather sat in his familiar place
A few feet from the hearth
In squashed down cushions
On his old chair
Covered in multiple layers of tattered quilts
All done in a different style
Of mad colors and shapes stitched together
Until it was hard to tell where one quilt ended
And another had begun

The chair was placed strategically
So Grandfather could grab the poker from it's rack
And then poke at the fire
Sending glowing embers disappearing up the chimney
Chasing away the spirits
Turning wishes into dreams

This is what Grandfather reached for now
His brown leathery tentacle wrapping around the wrought iron poker
Raising it out of it's rack
Bringing it into play with the half burned logs
He was pondering our current subject of discussion
Which we'd paused in order to attend to important business
Such as grabbing some more wood from the woodpile on the porch
And making some fresh coffee
Grabbing a few cups of whiskey from under the sink

You know
Important stuff

Now here we sat again
Me with the six fingers of my two hands
Firmly wrapped around my metal cup
Keeping the chill at bay with the fresh coffee
Mixed with two fingers of Grandfather's whiskey
The metal hot and comforting on my furry hands

Grandfather stopped moving the poker in it's hypnotic rhythm
His flexible appendage snaking out to replace it in the rack
He sat back
Picking up his own steaming metal cup
With his pink skinned traditional human left hand
A reminder in this day and age
Of what we used to be

Grandfather took a sip
The fire crackling healthily
Putting off just the right amount of heat

Clearing his throat he spoke in his whispery voice

"It all started with Bubba French"