I’m not a pyromaniac and certainly not an arsonist, but I do love a good fire, contained. The crackle, the slow dissolve of the wood as it burns, the blue flames, the sparks that burst up when the fire is stirred.
All our vacations growing up were camping, 47 minutes out of town, but I thought we drove to Missouri. All seven of us in the VW bus, pulling a boat filled with Sears sleeping bags. My sister drew imaginary lines around herself, “This is my space!” I had no choice, it seemed; I had to put my fingers right up close to her cheek and say, “I’m not touching you.” I always thought we went to Texoma because it had the best camping; we went because that was the farthest they could stand to drive.
Every night, we built a fire. Marshmallows on sticks. But mostly we just watched it burn. Little talking. If my face got too hot, I would turn my back to the fire, the cool night air a shock. I would go to bed with the smell of smoke lingering in my dreams.
I still love to build a fire, layering tiny twigs under larger and larger pieces, coaxing it from underneath, until it has taken hold and really burns. We considered a gas fireplace, but I want to burn the wood, how it cracks and falls. The scent drifting upstairs.
Next door, in the summer, the boys and their parents build a fire in the backyard. I’m cleaning dishes from dinner when the I smell it. It’s the smell of quiet, of childhood, of summer. I could walk all the way down the block and it would follow me.
nice memories
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