We had a fire at a lodge up at the foot of the mountains, me and my brothers and the friends they've shared with me. It was sort of ceremonial, because they burned old homework and table tennis rules. I was only in it for the orange and the red and the hints of blue and the crackling and tumbling of sparks. Oh, and the cat named Purr. I shouldn't have worn my favorite sweatshirt, because you know, smoke follows beauty.
I love how a bonfire can make the front of you so warm while your back settles into chill of the spring night.
I love how I can come home and the muddy shoes and the ashy bits in my hair and the smell of it all just stays for a bit, keeps the artificiality of doors and electricity at bay. It's a good sort of denial.
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