It was a cold winter night. One that was sure to bring snow later- if only you could wait for it.

There was a fire in the hearth that would pop sporadically from time to time. The black leather couch, scored with years of dog claws and worn by the constant rubbing of people, was pulled up close to it- a rare occasion. Normally it would be back against the wall.

The Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner, a rather interesting sight of whatever different colored lights we could find and random decorations from years past. Red stockings- surprisingly new and clean, (dad sewed them together) were hung up two a hook on either side of the fire so they would stay that way.

The carpet that would normally be spread across the floor was rolled up and put aside to make room for the couch. The overhead fan light glowed and shined brightly- the brightest light in the room. Finally, the piano light was on, adding to the skew of yellows in the room.

The fire emitted a warmth that we all wanted to be closer to. We. There we were, all piled up on the couch- 6 of us, minus mom. We could hear her in the kitchen, baking something for another day. The smell was delicious, but nobody would even consider moving from their perch- it was far too cold for that. The warmth from the fire seeped through our layers, warming us so that we would sigh in delight.

Oboe, my dog, was curled up on my lap, pretending to be smaller than she really was. It was a special time and place, that, under any other circumstances, would be quite annoying. But for now, we were content to squeeze onto the small couch. Next to me, my brother’s nasty old blanket he always kept around was a barrier for him against the cold. There were three other blankets on the couch, I had one, the one with the many holes, that used to be white.

I shared it with the youngest, Natalie, the baby of the family. We stroked Oboe gently together, listening to dad read a story beloved by all of us. “My side of the Mountain.” An audio record couldn’t have done a better job of reading that book than dad. His deep, reverberating voice carried easily above the comforting crackle of the fire as we sat there, trying to maintain a seat on the couch, just listening. It was the best kind of silence. We never wanted it to end.

But inevitably, one of us would get too cold. This person would sit on the ledge in front of the fire with their back towards it and listen as the rest of us stretched our legs, abating the space on the couch until it looked like no one had sat there at all. The person near the fire would sigh in delight as the fire warmed them.

Soon, however, it would get too hot and they would move once more to the crowded couch and try to reclaim a spot. The worst (relatively speaking) was when the fire would run low on wood. The logs were just outside the door, but it was cold, and the couch was so warm that no one wanted to do the menial task.

Dad would choose the person to go get the wood, usually the person closest to the door. Somehow, it made sense for it never to be him. Why, he was the one reading, of course he shouldn’t.

Soon, mother would come in to join us, sitting on the rocking chair nearby. (No way there was room for another on the couch.) She would alternate from on the ledge near the fire, back to the rocking chair.

There was a fullness in the room right then, one that was not present at very many other times. The simplicity of sitting near the fire on a cold winter night, huddled together, just our family, is ingrained in my memory as a time of closeness and love. This was a different kind of warmth than that of the one the fire or the blankets gave. All of us together protected each other from the cold nights.

Now, as I sit in a classroom and write, I remember this time as a time of closeness for our family, one that I know will not happen in the same way ever again.

-Savannah Jeffery