Fire

"Ouch!" she said to herself, carrying the fire precariously with her two small hands. Her uncle had told her to gather some old sticks together, tie a rubber band around and get some fire from the next door neighbour. Now, as she carried the sticks between her hands, the melted rubber dripped and stung her feet. Again she yelped, "Ouch!" By this time, there were tears streaming down her face. The pain was unbearable. Just at that moment the local dresser came by and heard her sobs. He took her to the infirmary and got her wounds cleaned and treated. Then, he took her home.

Three clicks is all it takes to turn the gas on. Just a twist of the knob to the left, click click click, and we're set to go. Pop the pan on the burner, pour the oil, cook the meal. There is no need for fire starters, tinder boxes or sticks held together with a rubber band. And should anything happen to me, my mother would come running... to wipe my tears away.

She entered the house. The dresser left her at the front door. The room was still except for the scampering of Uncle's feet across the floor, coming toward her. So still, so quiet, so alone. "What happened?" he asked. "The melted rubber burnt my feet so the dresser took me to the infirmary." He looked at her, lifted her chin and said, "I know it has been difficult, but you have to be responsible for the fire, since your mother is no more." Silently, she nodded and walked to the kitchen, holding the bundle of sticks with melted rubber.


Happy 79th Birthday.