Consider control: the power to enhance or destroy. Control was a group of twigs, organized in a small pile inside a pit, which formed a blanket for the shredded newspapers, old class papers and sheets of graded assignments tucked beneath them. Teddy reached into the pit, rubbed two sticks together and tried to create friction. When that failed, he grabbed a lighter and ignited a piece of newspaper; smoke began to slowly stream skyward.
A small red ember emerged from the pile and flickers of flames came to life. They flourished, ignited smiles around the circle. Eager anticipation burned in us as we scrambled for the package of marshmallows and chocolates. The flames traveled down the papers, shriveled them until they reached the twigs. I watched as an “A” paper withered into ashes, felt unaffected. Soon, the twigs were engulfed in flames; sent warmth to the shivering bodies around the pit. I stared into the flames, placed my feet against the edge of the pit and was enraptured by the tiny pricks as my feet became warm.
Conversation was murmured and I lost myself in the breaths of the flames against the twigs; the flames took a breath and retreated beneath the twig, exhaled and engulfed the twig again. Crackled and popped; screamed, begged for more sustenance. The fire continued to dance and I was entranced. I lifted my camera to my eye, adjusted the focus and click. This fleeting fire was captured, all I have left after it finally extinguished.
***
I lifted the camera to my eye again, felt the warmth from the flames slowly fade as I blocked its view. Click. I glanced at the image captured. I stood before a white house, burned black and gray; a strange family huddled together alongside their truck with tear stained faces; men fought the last of the flames that devoured their home. I watched the flames trail up the sides of the house toward the roof; gaping holes resided where the windows once were that poured oxygen into the charred room.
Lack of control: a fickle flame flourished into the fire that thrived and pulsed with life; it grew and devoured everything in sight like a hungry teenager home on summer vacation. I watched the mesmerizing feat, clutched my camera and click. Guilt gushed into my veins like a snake’s venom, poisoned as it slithered through my body. It seeped into my mind, left goosebumps across my skin. The hairs on my arm rose like flowers in the early morning searching for the sun. I turned away from the house in search of the tiny cries behind me.
I hated the flames I enjoyed a week ago when my eyes locked with the youngest child. She was wrapped around the legs of an older sibling, her face contorted in what some could easily mistake as laughing if it wasn’t for the stream of tears lead down her cheeks. When the firefighters brought the flames under control, the ashes settled; the smoke cleared.