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The best fire we had in those days was the nightat Jake and Donna's place. It was bittercold but we built the bonfire up high, then higher.Jake was a little drunk when he came laughingmostly falling down the stairs of the deckwith the Papasan chair from their living room.Let's burn it, Jake roared, and we roared backwith the flames when he threw it on and raiseda three-story column of wild, perishing ashagainst the darkness still expandingbetween the flares of diminishing stars.I always hated that chair, Jake announcedas we laughed with relish, in disbeliefas Donna nodded, for once agreed.Everyone stood up and backed away a bitand in the multiplying heat, we began to seewhat he'd done, what he'd started. It turned outthere were other things in the house Jake hatedso he became his own parade and we the townthat cheered him on. Letters he found and a half-finished painting. There were books that no longerworked for him, then the wobbly bookcase tumbled in.The more he found to burn, the better our fireseemed to like it and lick its quickening lips.There were things between most of us and insideevery one of us already vanishing smoke.What I remember most is how our faces flickeredin the shared, inexplicable goodness of that nightand the guitar—how quick and soft the sound its stringsmade as they unmoored from the burning bridge.