A chorus line of tiny flames danced up the side of the log, got a foothold and went to work. A moment later the fire was blazing cozily, our living room no longer resembled a three-sided bus station, and I stopped thinking about Miami, Florida. “There’s no place like New York in December,” I said. “December,” my Aunt Ellie said-and put down her crocheting. Quickly Jeff said to me, “Haila, I wonder if I should go out and buy some more logs.” “You can’t buy logs on Sunday,” I said. “Sunday,” Aunt Ellie said and cleared her throat. “Besides,” I said rapidly, but not quite as frantically as Jeff, “you’d never get back. You’d perish.” The three of us looked through the back windows and watched the snow battle its way through the freezing wind to a resting place in our frozen garden. Each of us shuddered and turned gratefully back toward the fire.
