It is the third day having a fire in my cast iron stove.
It is a new sensation, this radiant heat. Coming in from the chilly winds outside, brisk, sunny, and intense, I am greeted by a toasty warm kitchen. I'd forgotten this feeling. The brilliant sunlight of my front window is replaced by the forged, heavy metal hearth. From white to black, from brilliance to coziness. Truly, there has been a shift.
Yesterday, I set up camp on the chair before the fire, tea in hand, Filou roaming between his cushion and my feet, and wrote, read, explored. No doubt way too much. My eyes were aching when at last the boys walked in the door with Erick.
The only drawback of the situation (that of my stove) is that I've only these two chairs in front of it, and not the room to put a love seat or some such object upon which two people could easily be seated together. When first I moved here, I had visions of small over-stuffed English arm chairs. But these were unfindable locally, and bringing one from home (i.e. the US) completely prohibitive. Yes, my English roots were speaking there, painting my image of what is right and proper before a flaming chimney. Put in a few floor to ceiling bookcases, a purring cat, and I'm right at home.
Thus, Jonas simply climbed onto my lap (a large 7 3/4 year old now) to watch A River Runs Through It with me while Leo claimed the other chair last night. As his lids grew heavier he sought just the right position to curl up and possibly sleep. But, though my lap is not getting smaller, his limbs are stretching to new lengths, and try though he might, it was never quite right. The last few moments were best spent, legs out-stretched, under the covers, up in my bed.