Fire

Me, age seven: Sitting before a pink-and-white cake with icing on top, delighted. Yellow warmth hovering in front of me. Leaning in to blow them out…

Me, age eighteen: Crouching in the pitch-black basement, feeling the earth shudder. Holding a thin candle between us to share its light, its warmth. The wind whispering in, putting it out…

Me, age twenty-five: Lying in a trench. Nichols next to me proffering a smoke. Gunfire burst out. He was gone. The cigar in the dirt, sizzling out…

Me, age thirty-six: Out in the yard one fine summer's day, reading an old Ray Bradbury book. A scream. I turned. Smoke everywhere. The book fell. Later I found a match in the dirt, flickering out…

Me, age forty-five: Hunched over a motionless bed, shaking gently. A candle by the bedside trembling. Standing unsteadily to draw the covers over her face. The candle, going out…

Me, age ninety-two: Lying on a cloud, feeling cold, alone. Darkness pressing in. Near me, the faint glow of candlelight. Warm. I close my eyes, fading out.