I didn’t have any newspaper to help start the fire,
and with the amount of precipitation that has fallen
over the last number of days, most all of the sticks
that I use for kindling were saturated. I was determined
to sit next to a campfire. I retrieved gasoline from the
garage and poured it over the sticks that I had placed
in a tepee structure. I bent slightly, turned my head,
and reached with my arm as I sparked the lighter.
After some effort the fire burned hot enough to
make coals and I set a few more larger sticks on top.
I sat in our beach chair, which doesn’t match the forest
scenery, and admired the flames. The flames of a campfire
relax my mind. I’m able to enjoy the randomness and the
crackling sounds as I daydream. Gavin and Megan were
both asleep. It was late and very dark. I reached into my
pocket and took out my cell phone. I read a poem I had
written earlier. It was dreadful. So awful that I chuckled
at my failure. However, when I wrote it, I felt good. And
that feeling is partly why I write, even if the writing is bad.
And what’s more important was that when I gave myself
the permission to write for ten minutes I found my son,
Gavin, in my office sitting on my chair looking at the screen.
He had heard me say to his mother that I was going upstairs
to write for ten minutes and he beat me to where I would sit
to do the writing. As I sat near the fire watching the flames
dance, it warmed mo to think of Gavin wanting to be near me
while I wrote and I loved having him there.
..and look who just opened the door :0)