Thump. Crack.
I carry them in through the kitchen, where mum is kneading bread; rings on the table, hands sticky with dough; blue check apron dusty with the flour of many baking sessions. The sweet smell of home baking hits my memory with all the clarity of yesterday.
Thump. Crack.
Through to the living room, where I kneel by the empty grate; layer the sticks with old newspapers and cinders; set the damper; place a few new coals on top. That moment when the small flame begins to flicker and grow; holding my breath until the sticks and cinders catch, burn, bring the coals to life.
Thump. Crack.
Dad, home from work, settles down in his comfortable old chair; turns on the old black and white television; pours a little sweet tea from the cup into the saucer and blows across it before drinking. My siblings crowd in; choose their places by the hearth; nestle down like so many birds settling.
Thump. Crack.
And, like birds, they all left the nest long, long ago; grew into new identities; made new lives with other people. Mum and dad have both gone forever. Even the house has been stripped out, extended, modernised beyond recognition – my old home, as I knew it, has gone. Only distant echoes remain.
Thump. Crack.
I gather up the memories with the sticks, turning my face aside as I do so. Sticks wet with tears won’t burn.