How to Light a Fire

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It is said that fire
is a triumvirate
An “association of three.”
Heat.
Fuel.
Oxygen.
A trinity of dependence.

//

HEAT

It is late summer.
This is incessantly confirmed
by the humming locusts and
the heat
made visible in
the shimmering mirage
at the end of the gravel.
I am always fooled.
My body,
cloaked in heavy air,
moves slow,
deliberate.
I’ve stopped making plans.
I am resigned now.
Everything green is
gilded at the
edge.
We are all dying.

//

FUEL

Days
Weeks
Years
of
Joy.
Fear.
Laughter.
Salt water.
Unmet expectations.
Triumph.
Blood.
Brokenness.
Peonies.
Vodka.
Slammed doors.
Orange.
Art.
Babies.
Death.
Stratified
and
waiting.

//

OXYGEN

He begs me to push him
higher
his hands gripping the chain
fiercely
his eyes wide,
alive.
His view is a lake
dotted by geese
honking
preening.
He wants to soar
over them.
Kick the sky.
I push and
push and
push.
His entire body
cocked and
ready.
He holds his breath.
Always.
Always, he forgets.
I lean in deep
and whisper into his hair
that he must breathe.
I remind him,
me,
how to light
a
fire.

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Holly Grantham
Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.
Holly Grantham

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