Altered by Fire

We have a routine.  In the morning, after the kids are off to school, I sit at the kitchen table and write.  M watches The Dan Patrick Show upstairs in the office.  If I hear the floor creak, I know M is coming downstairs.

He passes through the living room, opens the blinds, strolls by me at the table, and grabs some water from the sink.  As he retraces his steps through the kitchen, under his breath he asks me how I am doing.  I typically respond as I hear his footsteps returning him to his comfortable spot in front of  Dan Patrick, which turns into Colin Cowherd, which turns into the girls being home from school.

It was at that time yesterday, as I was in the ferocity of engagement that comes with the kids needing snacks, help with homework, and rides to practices, that M escaped the commotion by doing maintenance outside in the yard.  I was pleased because our lack of curb appeal was an item of embarrassment for my 13 year old.  What was more, it was good to see him going—plowing through months of depression with fervor and ease.  He seemed to possess the joy of a child outside for the first time since the thaw of winter.

In my distraction with the kids, I failed to keep watch over what was transpiring in the yard. 

As soon as I had the girls settled in their rooms for homework and while our dinner’s fresh green beans were steaming in the microwave, I heeded my instinct and looked out the back door.

M had moved a pile of sticks and branches from behind the dog house to the middle of the yard.  Only, it was no longer a mound of natural debris.  It was a carefully crafted sculpture of the picture-perfect bon fire—minus the fire.

I heard the microwave alert me to the fact that the green beans were done and ignored it.  I was too curious.

I said, “You aren’t going to light that on fire are you?”

M lifted his Budweiser-holding hand in my direction and waved it around as he replied, “I grew up in the country.  I know how to handle a fire.  I have the hose ready.”

My eyes scanned the tall grass for our garden hose to find it in a circular heap at the edge of the yard.

He pointed the beer can toward the hose and said, “I got it. Is dinner ready?”

Food was enough to give M motivation to set that wood on fire.

I could smell it as I was loading the dishes into the Maytag.

I could hear our neighbor's voice bellowing from the direction of the rusty chain-link fence.  He told M that it was against city code to have a fire in the yard.

M replied, “I got it. I grew up in the country.”

Responding to the urge to go out back and intervene, I closed the door to the dishwasher, shut off the faucet and grabbed the hand towel, drying my hands as I walked to the back door.

Instead of reaching for the knob, my hands remained in the towel.

M was using the garden hose to put out the fire.

This morning, as I sat at the table to write, I heard the creak in the floor upstairs but no television.  M got some water from the sink, retraced his steps through the kitchen, but stopped at the table.  He pulled out a chair and sat.  He asked, "How are you doing?"

His fire for life is returning.  I just hope it stays out of the back yard.

photo credit: MarkGregory007 via photo pin cc