Yesterday, I made a fire.
Fallen leaves pooled in the cauldron, broken branches snapped on top, and chunky logs snuggled in the nest. Autumn’s detritus littered the rest of the patio in decaying browns and smudged oranges. It was all tinder, waiting for the strike.
It had rained the day before. The wood soaked, birchbark heavy with sog. The sticks had grown waxy. Leaves matted the hearth’s inner lip.
I gathered my firestarter, lighter, and kindling. I placed the brick at the base and lit its corners. I offered twigs and ripped newspapers. I blew the embers gently, like a whisper, coaxing it to roar.
Soon, the sputter steadied. Spark met leaf. Heat vaporized rain. Smolder screamed smoke and steam.
I fished out yesterday’s literature and fed it to the burn, papers printed with polling places turning to ash. I remembered this day in 2016, in New York, where it rained, and chucked the memory into the pit. There was that wave of fear. I let it wash over me but not the embers, which grew brighter in the churn.
Despite a drizzle, the fire was warm. I spread the coals evenly along the belly. Sparks danced. I watched as the log whittled, inhaling more oxygen and exhaling taller flames.
I tend to the fire, I tend to the fire, I tend to the fire.
There are little fires blazing everywhere. I tend to mine, and I look for yours.
Beautiful, MJ.