Nov 17, 2003
My dad built me a fire. With wood that burns better than the crap I get at Ralph's. I'm beginning to suspect the stuff I buy is just dried up sugar cane or old boxes mashed together very tightly. But my dad's fire burns like a dream. And the long, bowed logs crack open, their bellies spilling forth undulating tongues of flame. The glow of the fiery center pulsing. The ash molten. I sat and watched the fire with the dog in my lap. Until she got restless. Then I just stayed. No fire should have to die alone.
I wonder if I will ever be able to see flames and embers and glowing bits of wood without thinking of the Pirates of the Caribbean. Strange that the fake would evoke the real in that way. The fire my dad made for me tonight was like an homage to the Pirates. It's nearly down to nothing now. With renegade sparks swirling out of the embers from time to time. Like the lightning bugs I used to catch as a little girl in Virginia. Their light didn't last.
posted by Mary Forrest at 11:25 PM | Back to Monoblog