Kerosene Winter

The furnace quit sometime before Christmas.

So a kerosene heater glowed in the living room,

the fireplace adding to the spreading warmth.

Bedroom doors stayed shut. A blanket,

nailed across a doorway, held heat where

we needed it. Cold rooms waited on the other side.

After supper, someone would untie the blanket

or knot it in the middle, letting warmth drift

slowly through the house before bedtime.

Most nights it seemed easier to sleep in our clothes

than surrender them to the cold. Dad filled the heater

from a red can with a siphon hose,

careful not to spill, careful not to splash.

We kept blankets, chairs, and curiosity

a safe distance away from the glowing cage.

Wind worried the windows. And somehow the

house held. Our coats smelled of kerosene,

our backpacks smelled of kerosene,

our hair carried it into every morning.

But we weren't ashamed. We had heat, but the house

was kept so warm by love, and we smelled like it.

We knew exactly what that smell meant. It meant

the lights were on. It meant the pipes hadn't frozen.

It meant another night with everybody home,

gathered close around a warmth we could afford.