Embers

        Fascination.
        The crackle of the new logs, moisture releasing, twigs bursting alight. The smell of chocolate and mallow slowly cooking amidst the coals. The warning of heat and careful respect for this untamable mistress. The creation of memories that will last until the sun sets its final time. That first campfire.

        Fantasy.
        Huddling up next to your first, giddy at finally an excuse to be close to them. The world seems to melt away as faces are illuminated against the raw heat of the fire. Marshmallows are only an excuse to give something to them. A guitar finds its way to the fireside. Chords are strummed poorly, songs with quiet undertones of romance. A hopeful beauty in that bright moment.

        Family.
        The fire gets built by the kids now. The kids that are barely kids anymore. First the little tipi with bits of torn newspaper underneath. A smattering of what dry grass could be found and finally a spark. Soon tin foil parcels are set amidst the kindled coals to cook the night’s meal. Stories being told, exaggerated and retold in fanciful new ways. Silly accents, ridiculous jokes, and warm smiles that rival the fire’s heat.

        Friends.
        Old glasses, collected over the years, now filled with mint leaves, lemon slices, and the sophisticated brother of vodka. Stories among old and new friends, the fire pulling them all together in a half-conspiratorial circle. Eyes flicker, reflecting the spontaneous spirit of the flames. A moment of simple perfection, hands held, smiles natural and genuine.

        Future. 

        The logs have burnt away, now just embers, whispering their last crackles. Two seats and two mugs of tea. Two shapes, silhouetted against the night. Two figures that have blended into one picture, painted by the quiet sparks on the night’s canvas. Two hearts waiting out the embers.