The Beginning of Something

When I was a much younger man, I could sit and stare at a fire for hours. When the wind is calm and the summer noises are almost gone so you can hear the crickets and bullfrogs. When the sun has set but still won't let but the brightest stars shine; when the moon still lies abed below the horizon.

Then I could watch the flames wrap and tickle and the sparks shoot and the damp wood hiss and the embers, the tender embers, flooding the underbelly of the flames with the promise of long, low, sustainable heat.

I can't sit and watch the flames now for more than a few minutes. The flames pall. The embers no longer dance. Damp wood aflame no longer smells like the promise of a new tomorrow. And the smoke, the smoke is always in my eyes.

For an ordinary man, a midlife crisis.

For a pyromaniac, maybe a sign to switch careers.