Love for Fire

Love for Fire1

By Aaron Shay2

Timmy played with fire during recess.  Everyday, in fact.  After getting his food from the cafeteria, he would run off beyond the sand field and past the swing sets to wear trees lined the fence that surrounded the school.  It was more isolated there, and there were more sticks to burn.  Timmy was a sort of social hermit.  He never really opened up to anyone, except to the fire.3

He would start in a small way: gathering sticks and pinecones and other flammable objects that were lying around.  Then, carefully, he would pile them in a very specific pattern that I never could quite understand.  It seemed to me very much like a ritual, like he was preparing some sacrifice to some ancient deity that had been forgotten but never really disappeared.  It was all very cold, though.  He attached no emotion to the preparation that would lead to his daily pleasure.4

When he lit his first daily fire, it would become an object of wonder to him.  He would often stare at it, almost as if he were frightened by it, but also deeply attached to it.  The passion that was deep within him would escape through his eyes as they stared with reverence at the lovely orange flame.  Very slowly and very cautiously, he would begin to experiment with it, feeling its warmth and pretending that he could control it.  This was his favorite part of the day.  This was the time he was actually in control.  The next stage of the ritual was more worrisome.5

Then, he would begin to actually control it, lustily throwing burning twigs into the air, letting it fall where it would, then quickly picking it up before it could start a larger fire.  He would thrust his hand into the flames and pull it out before his flesh was burned. I was very much worried by his behavior, but could not bring myself to say anything.  This was his ritual, after all, and I was only a spectator.6

Before very long, he would lose control.  Soon, the ravishing flame started to control him.  It seemed as though he could not stop his ritual, that it had become a life in and of itself and started to be the master.  The time Timmy let the fallen, burning sticks lay on the ground grew larger, his actions more reckless.  He would not pull his hand out of the fire soon enough and would get burned.  His clean, new blue jeans would get scorch marks on them, same as his new, white shirts.7

One day, he found me watching from behind a tree.  He wasn’t angry or embarrassed or ashamed of what he was doing.  When I asked him, he told me it was something that everyone did.  It was very natural to him.  Deciding to take the chance, I asked him why he did it.  A dream-like state would come over him, and he would say that he wanted to own fire.  He wanted to build a fire that was huge, that could be seen from outer space.  He didn’t want to hurt anyone or destroy anything.  He just wanted the warmth and light.  That’s all.  I understood only a little.  It must be all very clear in his mind.  But I was an outsider.  I didn’t understand.8

He repeated his ritual everyday, no alteration.  Every day it was started with joy, and every day it ended with disappointment.  Timmy was a broken record, always ending at the same point, always returning to the same point.  It never changed.  Never.  He never learned.9