Hiding Matches

Fire . . . it's that element that I don't get. It's heat. It's dangerous. It's changeable. It's beautiful in a sorid way. My brother, when he was younger, had this obsession with fire. He would light matches and watch the flame dance on the tip of the match only to blow it out or drop it when it neared his fingers. Mom hid matchbooks for ages, and you could never find one when you need to light a candle. Birthdays? Most of the time was spent looking for anything to set the candles aflame.

For a while, Dave would purchase the instant fire logs for our old house because it burned in color. I'd wake up with a sore throat that would go on for days, and Dave's response would be, "But it burns in colors . . . it's blue!" Watch any person who's semi-drunk at a bonfire, and they are mesmerized for hours. It's like the most alluring babysitter ever. Watch the pretty flame. It changes shape. Color. Size.

Beyond the dangerous beauty is the real reason to fear fire. It destroys indiscriminnently. You always hear about the large brush fires in California and the people who stay to protect their homes when any rational person would get the hell out because they know that fire truly doesn't give a shit. It's the honey badger of the element world.

It brought a tear to my eye on Sunday

Fire destroyed a friend's livelihood this weekend. The family tavern caught fire when the cook came in to start the fryer. They lost the business and most of the apartments (two were spared). I got her text on Saturday morning, the one were she said she would rather deal with her dying father than the notice she got about the fire. By the time the fire departments got there, nothing could be saved. So now what?

I have a drink chip from the tavern, and I'm not giving it up. I refuse to give up the dream that eventually, I'll be able order a cheeseburger with grilled onions and sauteed mushrooms completed with an order Kelly fries and a few Yuenglings. I'll wait until I can choose the tunes on the digital jukebox. When I can chat with my friend and figure out what the skinny is about the people in tavern. When we can discuss what's going on in our families in details. When we can laugh our asses off at the next person to walk through the doors.

I'm counting on you to get the tavern up and running . . . I've got a drink chip after all.

Cheers,
Jill