July 2, 2015
Flames connect us. You know that it is the sunlight of a million summers, caught by photosynthesis, sealed in the earth, that we burn within car engines, moving us here, or there. We gather at fires in the winter, but it was under summer skies when I was closest to my father. We would camp in the mountains, hiking toward the sun. I learned from him to turn a pile of sticks into a fire, to heat beans or perk coffee. I remember liking the taste of burnt marshmallows: their molten centers so sweet on the tongue. Never as golden as his.
Perhaps it was a charcoal grill your father cooked on. A fine combination of lighter fluid and smoke may summon his younger self back to you. Perhaps your father was furnace hot burning you with words or strikes. My father lit sparkers in our hands, and one July he had to chase a burning wheel of fire through dry grass to stop a forest from catching flame. I remember his sun-dark skin, sweat radiant, working a shovel in summer heat.
Perhaps the sun is a god, as some imagined, quickening life, changing the earth, transforming each of us. Or perhaps the summer sun is an icon of something like love; source of power, fearsome, more distant than the inconstant moon, and yet shining in our eyes and skin, warming our minds and heart in this very moment.