I love fire.
As a kid, fire brought curiosity that nothing else did…besides maybe water. With fire…there was this beautiful, glowing, sign of heated life and it could grow. It could be bigger than a candle’s flame and be angrier than any person’s temper.
My first lesson on fire, was when I was a kid of about 7 or 8 and I lit a fire to my grandmother’s shag rug…just to see it burn. Unfortunately, my baby sister’s stroller was there. I KNOW what you’re thinking, but I promise it wasn’t intended to set HER on fire. I was playing carelessly and too young to know how quickly a rug made of synthetic fibers could burst into flames. I was chided harshly (deserving), but I could never shake that suspicion that I would harm my sister purposefully.
I still have a secret love affair with fire. There’s something about the colors that burning oxygen gives off to the naked eye…an involuntary pull to be swallowed by it, and hopefully…an 11th hour sense of self-preservation that keeps you from falling in.