Voice of a Smouldering Coal
She noticed everything. Intermittently, as if instinctively gauging the height of the flame, she called me to at- tention when Eye grew unaware of my drift, too close to it, and Eye will promptly take my cardboard fan to vigorously re-energising the fire.
 
With their dazzling boisterous character, the flames will howl again and Eye am always wafted into an elation of sentences made vapour, made ghosts be- decked in an elegy of sparks, an aurora of broken bodies of fire, ashes sucked-in, in an act of disappearance, heavenwards!
 
My Mother will say: It is OK now; Mommy’s boy is getting sleepy! Put down the fan. The fire raging too much, let it boil down a bit.
 
Fire is life itself. It starts off cool like a child in its Mother’s womb. Then, when it is time to come out and go on its own, there is pain. And, there is screaming and more screaming until it becomes full grown, standing tall in its rage.