LITTLE FIRES

'Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden.' ~ Cormac McCarthy 

I remember the first time I dipped under the radar, at a party with my parents’ peers. The setting reeked of awkward discomfort, blatant superficiality and pointed nuances that I wouldn’t grasp for decades. I wasn’t in double digits yet, but I found myself asking a much older adult numerous questions, unconsciously avoiding having to answer any. It worked.

In spite of its startling success, my newfound method of staying invisible stoked a lifelong yearning: that one day someone, somewhere, would pass the litmus test and turn a singular, warm spotlight in my direction.

Of course, by the time that happened it was impossible to discern real interest from toxic attachment. And although years of honing my external craft resulted in far more interesting questions (and people), an inner void of burning resentment smouldered like dry kindling in a well-stocked grate.

These days I’m inclined towards tending my own hearth, raking through the coals to see what bones survived the fiery heat that nearly incinerated my youthful dreams. When put to the mirror, it’s not easy to duck brilliant prisms of deflection, piled as they were under the cold ashes of neglect for so long. 

The wisdom of runway-short age and vast amassed experience says that all the keys are in the asking anyway, never in the actual answers; a bellow-whisper on the palm of Life that creates just enough space to fan an ember, to renew a spark.

But like wet matches after a near-drowning, I struck a lot of futile sulphur to light otherwise inky nights in starless skies. As each hopeful firestick inevitably ended in deeper, darker despair, one more was snatched up in frenzied frustration, only to be roughly discarded, doomed already inside the small, sopping box that once promised innocent sustenance.

Perhaps when one reaches a finite amount of matches - when there’s only enough to fill the sharp edges of perspective and they rattle around with the gentlest shake – then patience can dry out what remains. Or maybe enough courage can curl around the crippling inertia to move the whole damned fireplace.

Either way, paradoxically, the more time passes, the more it slows. Precious matchboxes are now appreciated for their real purpose, wrapped in waterproof packets and tucked away securely when footing is lost, when fast rivers threaten swamping, and carefully placed in the sun to dry again.  

Who knew that whole rainy nights could be endured without a fire anyway? Or that comfort is assured only when the means lives in one's own pockets? Safety sleeps softly then, because firewood can be found everywhere, lit over and over again in a chain of smoke that brightens the gloomiest gloom.

Eventually one discovers where to find more matches, and when to make fire. And all the quests, the questions too, become irrelevant. But in the flickering flames it's good to know that sometimes, just sometimes, being invisible can indeed save a life.