Step #1
Start with your logs: twigs, the thin kind scattered everywhere. The camouflage kind you don’t notice. Pick them up, keep them in your pocket where they won’t fall out. Small smiles from across the room. High fives as you walk past. Better yet, keep them in your hand, don’t let them slip away. Not even one. You will need all of them. It will take everything you have to start this flame and not get burned. Still, you may get burned.
Step #2
But first you’ll need logs—big and small. No one is too small. Text me when you get home. Your face lights up when you see his, eyes sparking smile on natural lips, hands wind up on rose hips when arms wrap around each other. Round wood, growing rings a little bit wider, bark a little bit drier. Now you’re cooking with fire—or you will be soon. Calling on the phone after a long day of busy silence. Wearing a dress for dinner and the arcade because no one is stopping you, letting his hands dance with the frill of the skirt because no one is stopping you. No one should be stopping you.
Step #3
Drop the logs you’ve collected by the pyre, a stack you can’t give back to the woods of the past. Sort them by weight or rake them all together, it doesn’t matter so long as you have them all in one place. Go back to the forest, hold his hand and walk by his side. Keep his pace; it’s never been a race. Find the chopped trunk covered in lace, let his fingers trace your sanded skin.
Step #4
Remember you don’t have to chop any trees down. Nothing has to die to create this fire. Just walked away from. Fires don’t start with rotten logs. Find the sturdy ones, the foundation of decades. Of centuries. The logs that lasted their nights of sentry duty. Bring them back with you. Ask him to help you carry them, the logs. Settle them down in the soft dirt, carefully build on past hurt to prevent burning the possibilities. You don’t need that many thick logs to get the fire started, the smaller ones just need something to hold onto. You need something to hold onto.
Step #5
You hold onto his hand; he holds onto your heart as you start to build. Teepee or cooking, the style doesn’t matter. Two pairs of hands, one source of light. Keep a stack of paper nearby. Secret winks and whispered secrets. Your twisted back that only walking helps straighten. His mint chocolate chip fascination. You’ve collected enough of them to catch a spark. You caught it, keep it curled close in your lap like a cat. The real trick is in making it last.
Kasey Roper 