The coal stove sat in the kitchen like a black iron altar. Everything in the tenement revolved around it. You cooked on it. You heated the apartment with it. You dried your clothes above it. You warmed your hands against it in January. The coal stove was the heart of the apartment and the apartment had no other heart.

The coal came up from the cellar in a bucket. Somebody had to go down to the cellar and fill the bucket and carry it up the stairs. In our building that somebody was me. Five flights down. Fill the bucket. Five flights up. The coal was heavy and the stairs were dark and the cellar smelled like a mine. I made that trip three times a day in winter. The coal stove was hungry. The coal stove was always hungry.

You learned the stove the way you learned a person. You learned which damper to open and which to close. You learned how much coal to add and when to add it. Too much coal and the stove got too hot and the pipe turned red and the building could burn. Too little coal and the fire died and you started over with newspaper and kindling and a match and your breath. The coal stove did not forgive mistakes.

The ash had to go somewhere. You shoveled the ash into a pail and carried the pail down to the street and dumped it in the ash can. The ash can sat on the curb next to the garbage can. The ash was gray and fine and when the wind blew it spread across the sidewalk like a ghost of the fire. The ash was the coal's receipt. Proof that something burned.

They replaced the coal stove with the radiator and the radiator with the thermostat and the thermostat with the app on your phone. Each replacement made it easier and each replacement took something away. The coal stove asked you to participate. The app asks you to watch. I would rather carry the bucket.

See also: Cellar Door, Fire Escape