Fireside Hindsight
written by: Aaron Grierson
The fire calls to me: that primal heat and first imperative technology, wrapped up in scores of myths all seeking to answer integral pieces of the existential question ‘how did we get here?’
It began with a faint chill in the first airs of autumn. I am staring into the dancing flames of a backyard fire, and it renders me immune to the season change closing in on us. Besides, I love the fall: vibrant colours, cool air, free of summer’s humidity, the spooky season that is Halloween, and all things spiced and nice. All this, and more; my love of autumn reminds me of her love of autumn. One of many things we once shared. Now… we’re like distant islands, afloat in an ocean that crashes around the world, thousands of kilometers away.
As the fire crackles gently, spilling forth a warm gush of sparks, I remember. I know exactly how I got here.
***
That first day emerges, fresh in my mind like an oil painting that’s dried into perfection. Sitting outside the lecture hall before an environmental history course. I’m in my third year of undergrad, and we first met in late September. Like an awkward freshman, I interrupted my regularly scheduled reading to confirm if we were in the same class. This was followed by a nearly smooth compliment of the band tee nestled between her earthen sweater. We laughed and talked shop over the then-new album from Kamelot, agreeing upon its general mediocrity.
Within days, we were fast friends and sharing disdain for the professor’s lecture style. Bantering between classes and casting sidelong glances at one another became a regular highlight.
I felt an unfamiliar spark igniting inside me – something hesitant, and hungry.
Life felt like it would get in the way, fueling my confusion. But those eyes, I could stare into them for hours. Reflecting back at me the same hesitant hunger, her gaze a brilliant green. The brown curls that messily framed her face drew me in like a moth. She persisted, making the first move and setting the groove to which we’d soon vibe.
I was excited, inadequate. Even so, the flames slowly grew in my chest. I felt plain before the gothic statuette of her porcelain flesh. She graced the campus with a joy that ranged from the dark spires and hilarious gargoyles, like those that guarded University Hall.
That fall will always stick with me. There was a lot going on in my mind, as time slid us into my first real romantic relationship. We didn’t pick up too quickly – I was shy, and though she felt that same kindling warmth, she respected that. Every misstep, every poor choice of phrase that my nervous lips breathed into the world, these mistakes I learned from. While starting sweet, it was much like getting halfway through an apple before realizing it’s rotten.
Or maybe because of those mishaps, I clearly remember the smile on her lips, curved in what I long felt was a piece of perfection that I got to enjoy. Like the first awkward car rides home, my nerves all aflutter as we bonded over wonderful music like Abney Park, Pendulum, or Idlewild. Needless to say, the windows ended up foggy more than once. It was a small price to pay for protection from thirsty bugs, buzzing into the waning nights.
Spinning, like the Earth itself, we stumbled forward together in a long dance of exchanges, grateful to get about one class together a semester. Just as we progressed and matured, the weather changed, and we grew closer, a blazing romance that collected leaves like precious artifacts, hoping to save some bright beauty before the frigid Canadian winters.
***
The long dark was never an issue for me – built like a furnace, I welcomed cold snaps that kept me comfortable and afforded me the glittering glory of a snowy cityscape. There wasn’t much snow the year I won the local bonspiel, a notable trend relevant even now. Those rare days she braved the crush of some twenty people watching us curl were precious.
It was always special when she came out in the winter – she hated the cold.
She’d watch my games bundled warm, knitting or reading in between proud glances iced with a sweet smile.
I had been on fire that night. Confident, making every shot work, though not always as intended. One of the few bonspiels I won, though I always appreciated the ones that came with a bottle of whiskey.
It wasn’t the win that stuck with me. This was the season, the second year in our relationship, where she referred to me as her ice swan. Something I found simultaneously hilarious and endearing. It made me swell with pride every time she said it. The image contrasted starkly against my usual demeanour. And although I played soccer in the summer, I gave a new meaning to the term defence, for I was a wall. One nearly impossible to manoeuver around or knock over.
Yet somehow I made sliding onto the ice during curling look graceful. And I trusted her in this. It made sense, since, like myself, swans are protective. Moreover, I felt great on the ice, and had no reason to doubt her, whom I loved most. Her kind, creative words made me glow with pride and would take some time to become familiar.
Although we’d often cuddle and read, or watch horrors or British comedies, we didn’t live together. That night was special. One where we spent the night together, coming in from the cold in a confident, comfortable blaze mirroring the ones in our hearts.
Rushing with adrenaline, and just a single pint changes the intensity of the world around you- colours grab your attention, time slows, and you can feel the pulse of everything around you.
That night, while the moon crept past midnight, and a soft blanket of snow slowly drifted upon the city, my doubts were washed away, my insecurities banished from the house, and I felt alive. The kind of life that comes in small moments, forcing existential dread to take a backseat.
Though she was never a fan of the cold that came with snow, a part of me deeply longs for those winters, navigating romance with a sure foot, not tied down to a desk job. Her green eyes were the only stars I desired, speckled with their own partly explored nebula of wonder.
As with all things, the majesty of winter eventually melted away. Our love clung together like a pile of April slush in a parking lot, the sunlight of spring shining down and beginning to reveal foundational cracks.
***
In spring, alongside the wonder of revived colours, I eventually get truly, madly, deeply annoyed. At least I’m only haunted for a few weeks.
Our vacation to Ottawa was the first trip where it felt like the bonfire of love was starting to collapse. I’m glad we missed the 150th Anniversary, as aside from fireworks, it didn’t seem worth the hype. Our hostel had, aside from limited parking, a wonderful eerie vibe, creepy stories, and supposedly, persistent ghosts. We stayed there a few years ago. Sadly, there were no hauntings or paranormal activity in our room that time. Perhaps I’m too imposing.
We did have a lot of fun, trying new restaurants, observing Parliament Hill at a safe distance, and some wonderful time by the riverside. Sharing meals, or fancy Asian desserts brought back the glimmer in her eyes. Her smile at sunset was irresistible, a watercolour cascading down the Ottawa River.
Other moments felt like ashes were kicked up from the embers, stinging my eyes. As the sole driver in an unfamiliar place with a wonky GPS, it wasn’t always easy navigating small streets. Unfortunately, navigation duty was one she always shirked, vehemently.
Little things that were always around, but never a threat to the relationship, felt more real on this trip, like being away from home made us both more vulnerable, but also less tolerant. We missed out on paddling down the river, something I think would have been fun, cute, even quaint.
The Canadian War Museum certainly loomed large later in the week. An intense collection, she couldn’t make it through, even taking a break. So, as instructed, we quit early, stunting our growth and displeasing the completionist in me.
Equally foreboding by this point was bedtime. We had spent fewer nights together before the trip, and during it, it felt like a hedge had sprung forth, firmly planting her in a maze I couldn’t simply navigate through.
Our bonfire was there, but at a distance, obscured.
For all the jokes I could have made about being screwed in the capital, I refrained, so far as I remembered. Often relying on humour for deflection, there’s something about making jokes when you’ve got a bad taste in your mouth. Smoke is delightful to smell, not to be blinded by.
I feel like there were road signs I missed, driving the six hours to Ottawa. We made it there in one piece, enjoying her podcasts My Favourite Murder, Welcome To Nightvale, and our eclectic collection of music. But on the ride home, something was missing. I longed for the mood before the trip, where we flowed in better rhythm. Maybe I was blind, or scared of the truth yet to come.
As ash from a dying fire is dry, much like Ontario summers, the waning embers of love are prone to smothering joy. Both could make you choke. While many summers were full of majesty and sunburn, our conflagration felt more like flaming logs surging down uncomfortable rolling hills.
***
While I enjoy summer despite the deadly heat, one has been burned into my mind, presumably for eternity. COVID was rough on everyone; the entire world changed. Looking back, it’s funny to see what isolation can do to introverts.
Amidst the good days, there were still lost tempers. Biting arguments that lasted a few moments, but the recoil unwound for days. I remember snippets of countless conversations over tea, in a park, either tucked in a corner, or just huddled in my car. Between her and I, they were moments of near normality in an uprooted world.
For a year and a half, things were all right between us, working from separate homes, we stayed in touch on the regular. She was there, as she always had been, more than anyone else.
Then, I made a mistake.
Because I asked for help.
I kicked up our smouldering embers of affection into a momentary firestorm of anger.
I asked her, my closest friend, to edit a story. It was the wrong one, and she was the wrong person to ask. I don’t think there ever was a good time to ask her. It was a moment of weakness, of anxiety, of being unprepared for a looming deadline.
Our fire wasn’t so much quashed as incinerating a piece of my very soul. The flame wouldn’t totally go out for a couple of months before I was a ghost, trapped in the shell of a mind fixated upon the overwhelming gloom of a single poorly timed decision.
It was nearing the end of summer, and I was scared. The harsh things that were said, that we both said, set me adrift on a dilapidated raft rushing down the proverbial creek without a paddle. In the middle of a thunderstorm.
A ten-minute phone call terminated a decade’s worth of friendship, and nearly that long of love.
Desperately, I reached for the pleasant memories of cuddling, swapping books, memes, or enjoying awful movies. So many gems just cast to the wind, else slapped away by a different fire – that of her dislike, distrust, disdain.
I struggled for some time; everywhere I looked, something reminded me of her. Even venting about work led me, like a caged rat, to the image of her beautiful face, beautiful mind, torn away like a black hole.
While an endless summer may seem blissful, I lived this one in an endless cycle, replaying the memory over, and over. The knife in her voice, the scowl I imagined on her face. The marvel at how she refused to use Track Changes the way I desired. Every minute detail, so overlooked before, now magnified by sorrow.
For me, it had become the Endless Summer of the Damned, a song, ironically, I did not binge at the time. So I stood, a man in my own mind, beholding the destroyed bonfire of a decade’s intimacy. Although not the longest friendship, but indeed the most intense, this one would leave me both breathless and broken. In the wake of its loss, I felt like little more than an ember on the wind.
***
And for all of my inadequacies and insecurities, I have a certain Scottish stubbornness in me, and was raised to trudge through things. While not the healthiest way to manage your emotions, at times it serves a purpose.
Therapy helps, though she wasn’t the sole cause for seeking it.
I’ve had time and space necessary to separate myself and process things. To see the good, and the bad, to understand aspects of our relationship that were secreted from me at the time. Sure, I could have done better, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have still ended up here.
Presently, once again on the cusp of fall, I remember those dancing flames. The backyard is cool, the fire having died once the fuel was burned up. The happy crackling now having ceased.
Smiling, I stare at a pile of coals. They’ve gone cold now, unable to roast any marshmallows. But nor do they hurl ash into my face. Through the tears of nostalgia, I can move on, carrying the wisdom of my successes and my failures with me like old friends. I know not where to, but I am open to fresh kindling and experience. Moreover, I am hopeful my affinity for autumn will guide me somewhere worthwhile.
Not all those who wander are lost, all that is gold does not glitter; we’re only truly lost if we give up. There is a way through everything, and I’d prefer the road untrodden, led by the silver spires in the sky. I am no fire starter, but life moves on like the still burning embers hidden beneath the warm ashes. Always churning, always changing, and always moving forward.
There is no destiny, only the choices we make, or the ones we avoid.
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