Start with a fire pit. Four pieces of rough-cut alder to make a tepee. A little wobbly but it holds. Shove crumpled-up newspapers and collapsed cardboard boxes into the heart of the structure. Just like you learned at Girl Scouts.
Fetch the lighter and wait. It’s too hot still, Mom says. Give it an hour. As soon as the breeze raises goosebumps, light the stack. Watch as the inky words warp, the pale timber groans and blackens.
Four chairs. Too far away for the sparks to strike bare feet but close enough to feel the heat. Your little sister is distracted by the fireflies. Your not-so-little sister is silent while she stirs the ashes. Mom pours a second glass of wine. Tell us the story of how you were almost arrested in New Orleans. It was a miracle I got out of that one, she says. Her eyes anchored in the past, watering from the smoke.
The smoke. Now everyone is silent. Even Mom’s voice trails off. Disappears into the obscurity of the July night as she watches. The flames pulse it out in waves like a beating heart. The wind teases it into swirls. Cyclones that are too weak to pick up anything but scraps of burning paper. It dances and sways until it’s lost to the darkness. Just like Mom’s voice.
The wood pile is also gone. The last piece already fit into the flickering framework. The popping and spitting loud enough to mask the singing of the cicadas. Its glow lapping against our stony faces. Faces that can’t help but watch the celestial blaze and blistering embers that warm our bodies. Bodies that become shadows as soon as the flame dies out.