My eyes are moving as fast as my hands, quickly, but slightly delayed as the plumes of smoke cloud my sight. I reach for the tiny beads of orange flying through the air; the fire has given birth to a new breed of insect. Just as a toddler hopelessly chases the bubbles that have floated away too high, or an old women tries as hard as she might to return to the days of her uniform clad soldier and meatloaf filled oven, I too am grabbing for something just out of reach. The only difference is that of the three I’m the only member sans diapers, and more likely than not I will not plop, drop, tumble onto a grassy lawn nor will I gingerly settle into a rocking chair nursing my worn out body. If anything, I will be burned. And despite realizing this I subconsciously scoot closer still, my canvas chair dangerously close to being set aflame. Evolution and instinct obviously forgot to grace me, a fact confirmed as I stretch out my arms in hopes of snagging my own little flame, possibility of burns or not.

But soon, like the easily distracted child or a just as forgetful senior, I turn my attention upwards, my eyes looking past the bats, past the tree tops and into the black abyss dotted with stars. I pretend like I know what I’m staring at, a secret astronomy buff as knowledgeable as an old ship captain. But really I just crack my neck backward and enjoy the sight. The smaller the fire the better my view. I pretend that the stars are airplanes in the night sky since I don’t really need any wishes. Maybe I can save them for later. No more fire no more flames… Just stars staring back at me.