The log I'm sitting on is hard, but I don't care. I've been looking forward to this evening for weeks. Around me, friends mill around in small clusters, talking and laughing with each other, sipping on warm, mulled cider and catching up. Terrence, my newly-adopted chocolate Labrador, trots over to me and rests his muzzle on my lap.
"I'm not giving you any more pretzels," I say sternly. Terrence gazes up at me with those big cow eyes of his, and I try to stone-wall him. "Terrence..." I say, a warning in my voice, and his bright pink tongue flips out and laps at his nose. He lifts his head and pants at me in anticipation, and I break into a smile. Glancing around like I'm about to do something terribly bad, I reach over to the plate next to me and swipe a pretzel stick, slipping it to my overly-excited, four-legged baby boy. He snaps it up and nuzzles me gratefully before bounding off through the yard, paws crunching through the piles of dead leaves that he scatters in all directions like giant red and yellow snowflakes, to see who else he can sucker into feeding him contraband.
I shake my head and chuckle.
The evening air is cool, invigorating, and I wrap my silky wool scarf closer around my neck. I love this scarf. My granny made it for me when I was fourteen, crocheting it with meticulous care despite the arthritis in her aging hands. I remember watching her working on it, sitting in her armchair in her living room and laughing at episodes of "The Love Boat," all the while her hands busy winding the beautiful green yarn into the intricately-patterned fabric I've worn around my neck each fall since then. That was in 1983. Granny left us just two years later.
Laughter behind me snaps me back to today, and I hear my friend Mike and his wife Sharon talking loudly with some other guests. I smile to myself. The annual bonfire at my house in the country has been the fall event of the year for many years now. It's nothing fancy, but these friends and family who gather here with me each November are the same amazing group of people who helped me get through some of the toughest years of my life. If it wasn't for the love of these angels without wings, I might not be here today. We gather now as my way of thanking them for their support during a very dark time, and to remind myself that I've survived another year.
I watch the flames of the bonfire for a few minutes, crackling embers sparking against the darkness of the late evening sky, the ambers and reds of the coals glowing brightly deep within the heart of the fire. I shiver at the cold on my back, the night air reaching its icy fingers around my shoulders. It seems unusually cold this fall. But I'm happy. I breathe in the smell of the wood fire, and I close my eyes, picturing the flames in my mind. Fall is, without a doubt, my absolute favorite season of the year.
When I open them again, I am greeted with the vision of a man placing a large chunk of cedar on the bonfire, the glow from the pit making his blond hair shimmer. The man is Adam. He positions the log carefully, pokes around in the fire with a large branch, then smiles at me when he notices I'm watching him. Adam leans the branch against an unoccupied log and disappears into the small crowd, reappearing a minute later holding two steaming paper cups. He sits beside me on the log and hands me a cup of cider, and I thank him, wrapping my hands around the warm cup.
"Nice little party," he says, smiling at me. I love that smile.
"Thank you," I say. "I'm glad you decided to grace us with your presence this year, you ol' recluse you."
"I don't like crowds," he says, gingerly taking a sip of the hot liquid and watching as the fire catches on the cedar log. We both watch as the flames lick at the wood like a hungry predator engulfing its prey.
"I know," I say finally. "I'm still glad you came." And I mean it.
A few beats pass and neither of us speaks. We sit quietly watching the fire, lost in our own thoughts. Adam looks at me again, and I turn toward him. He and I have been friends for years, and as I let my gaze flit across his rugged features, I can't help noticing the set of his jaw, the graying stubble on his chin, and the creases around the corners of his eyes when he smiles. I have such a soft spot for this man. I wonder if he can tell?
I see the reflection of the dancing flames in his eyes, and I shiver again, not from the cold this time, but at the sheer happiness I am feeling in this very moment, surrounded by the beautiful woods, the starry night sky, a roaring fire, and the company of the people nearest and dearest to me. But especially Adam.
Thinking I must be cold, Adam wraps a warm, strong arm around my back and pulls me against his side. I lay my head on his shoulder, breathing in the mixture of wood smoke and his cologne, and nuzzling the soft cotton of his old, well-worn flannel shirt. To my surprise, he kisses the top of my head, and I feel my cheeks flush. I close my eyes and take it all in.
And in this moment, I feel true joy.
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