Letter to my children: Pyromanics breed true

“Look at how far down this one went!”

“And this one!”

I walk over to see the proffered charcoal sticks. “Oh wow, that is really burnt.”

“This is so fun!”

“It is SO fun!” Jumping feet make the floor shake. “I LOVE matches! Dragon, you can get two from here.”

“Okay, I am going to grab them, hold on.”

Quiet falls onto the room. There is the sound of a match striking a box. Again.

Again.

Pursed lips and clenched fingers strike matches again.

Then awed silence.

“It is so much fun to light things!”

Quiet.

“Mom, I love FIRE! It is so nice and warm.”

Quiet breathing.

“Mom, I did it on the first strike!”

“Bean, stop gloating that you can do it on the first try.”

“Dragon, that box is supposed to be closed so the matches don’t fall out.”

“Bean, stop being a parent.”

I pipe in from stirring oatmeal, “children.”

There is another pause.

“That box also says to keep away from children,” and Bean looks at me.

“Well, your Momma has never been good about following directions. Besides, you two are being safe and I am right here. They put that on the box so that children don’t start fires and burn the house down.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And we are being SUPER safe because you are right there.” Dragon strikes another one.

“Let’s do another big fire with all four of them together.”

“Okay.”

Children, I see you.

I see you learning how to flick your hand through a candle flame, and practicing during Thanksgiving with your cousins, like your Momma.

I see you in your teens filling orange cans with gasoline and shooting them for target practice like Baba.

I see you in your twenties playing with candles after dinner for an hour like your parents one night.

I see you sitting around a fire for warmth and company and in the unique glow of firelight.

I see you adding bigger and bigger logs to outside fires. I see you.

I see you.