They burned very slowly. A single lilac root takes a whole evening to burn. You have to poke it continually to keep it going, and it smolders rather than flames. Now and then it gives a turquoise color, just a flash. There’s no smell of lilac at all, but from time to time the whole root takes on a sort of glow, shadowy and three-dimensional like a human face burning, eyes and mouth and wrinkled cheeks all lit up and keeping itself intact right to the point of disintegration. We still talk about it, Dad and his lilac roots. Even the children remember, or say they can.

By five o’clock the goose is back in the oven, sputtering fat and getting golden. And by seven o’clock the eight of us are seated at the table. Our faces look coral. Dennis carves, looking not quite at me, across the table. Dad carefully tastes a bit of goose, then says, as if he’s looking a long way back into the past, “It reminds me a bit of pheasant, only meatier.” Sally runs through her recent Tuxedo triumph and Purse shares his nice rambling educated laugh around the table. We go counter-clockwise, telling our New Year’s resolutions. Dad says he’s going to think seriously about a trip to Florida, which I’ll believe when I see it. Sally’s signed up for calligraphy. Purse is giving up white sugar. The kids look giggly and secretive and won’t say, even when I prod them. Dennis announces his resolution to run the mini-marathon in April. He says this in a staunch, wilful, but kindly way. I’m going to master the art of crepe making, I say, but my real resolve, the one I don’t mention, is to stop managing everyone’s lives for them.

After dessert the three men insist on doing dishes. Sally and I sit in the living room waiting for them. The waiting seems like a treasure we’ve piled up, something we owe ourselves. We settle back into soft cushions and put up our feet in front of the fireplace. But then I remember I’ve forgotten to lay a fire. And what with the goose crisis, Dennis has forgotten to bring up any firewood. We look at each other, at the birch logs sitting there, and say, why not?

“Hold on a sec,” Dad says, coming in from the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.” He puts on his coat and boots and five minutes later he’s back with a large carton of bowling pins.