Daddy use to light
better fire. Daddy’s fire was so bright,
so happy; shades of color I had just learnt would all come together and swirl
about over the logs and under them. Gentle, yet strong, as flames engulfed bit
of dried leaves and twigs, it crackled. Urged on by my father, the flame grew
with spurts of rich orange and red.
Mom says all fires are
alike. But I don’t think she has an eye for things like these. I think moms
afraid because Dad’s fire went out.
I think Dad’s fire was
lit with more than a few matches. It could never go out or be extinguished.
Daddy’s fire just moved
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