in my head

a fire

          I am sitting next to the fire. I can feel its warmth as I reach out my toes. I watch as the embers breathe behind the metal grating around the fire pit. They pulse like a heartbeat, and I try to sync my breaths with theirs. Though it is a beautiful night, I am getting cold, and there are goosebumps raised along my arms. The firelight reflects off of my arm hair and makes it look as though there is a field of golden wheat planted in my skin. I admire it for a moment and then tuck my arms into my stomach to ward off the chill. I won't be cold for long, though.
          My father has started to make his way around to the pile of old and dismembered Christmas trees. They burn hot and bright and fast, and they die down just as suddenly, causing a circumstantially dichotomous night. I can't be too upset, though. I have music, and strawberry's, and some cheese and crackers. My feet are in the dirt and my head rests against the back of the wooden deck chair as I try to name what few stars I can see from my backyard. I am comfortable. Oh... that one was just a plane.
          My mind wanders to memories of summers spent in the countryside, chatting with the cicadas and staring at the milky way while convinced that the international space station was the renowned Farm Fairy's medium of travel. We would watch as she passed overhead at the annual labor day camp out. She was a special fairy; sometimes I wonder if she has a name or...
          I'm pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of my father breaking branches of another season into a dense handful of twigs small enough to shove into the fire all at once. He is taking special care so that stray coals will not fall outside the pit where I may step on them in all of my bare-footed glory.
          The song I had chosen to listen to is drawing to a close, so I pick up my phone to search for the next one. Dad grumbles something about hogging the speaker and how I should relinquish it after this song. Normally, I might feel petty and be inclined to hog it for longer, but I am too comfortable to object. I agree to give him control after one more song and continue thinking of what would be a pleasant close to my program. It is a nice night... I think that Pavane for a Dead Princess would suit the clear sky and the gentle crackling of the fire. I press play, and the slow and pulling sound of strings drags through the air. I sigh and close my eyes, remembering when I performed this piece with a youth orchestra in my town. I always thought it odd to choose a solo piece for that group's repertoire, however beautiful is may be. The first chair horn—and star of the piece—is a good friend of mine, and I miss him dearly in isolation. Maybe tomorrow, I'll pick up my horn and practice next year's state audition music...
          Dad has finally readied his handful of Christmas tree, and my mother cheers him on with a whoop and a raise of her wineglass as he takes the two step distance from the fire in dramatic slow motion...and then plunges his whole arm into the fire. He pulls back quickly as the dried needles ignite. The flames instantly climb to six feet, and suddenly I do not think being cold is so bad.
          I hold a hand out in front of me as though it will prevent the sudden heat from stinging the delicate skin under my eyes. I do not feel the heat in my feet so much, but on my uncovered shins, it burns. The pillar of flame gives off so much heat that the spring green maple leaves a short ways above are blown upwards, and I am mildly afraid that the tree will catch on fire and become a giant torch that can be seen for blocks. How embarrassing it would be to face the neighbors. The sound of shifting leaves and branches is not heard above the intense crackle of the fire and the honey-and-butter sound of the french horn played to my right. The music flowing from the speaker has no regard for the violent blaze only a short distance away. It's surreal.
          I lean down to compare the temperature of my shins to my toes. My toes—as always—are freezing. I don't how they can be the coldest part of my body while having been the closest to the fire. I move my hands up to my shins and almost flinch away. They are so hot, I wonder if my leg hair has been singed off. I rub my hands up down a few times to test my theory; my leg hair is still there in its not-really-long-but-not-really-short-either length. I hum while rubbing my legs, hoping that my cold little fingers will leach some of the warmth from them, also pleased at the texture of the hair. I quit when the friction makes my palms sweaty, though my fingers still remain as cold and dead as the fire's repurposed fuel. I wonder thoughtlessly that if I were to burn my fingers like the Christmas tree, would they smell as sweet? I imagine an image of my father breaking my dried limbs into smaller pieces so that they might all fit in the iron cylinder, and not spill on the ground where bare feet might tread. The smoke of the fir tree is ambrosial. When the occasional spring breeze blows toward me, I inhale deeply the scent of months past, letting it dredge up pleasant memories.
          The fire recedes, and I am left staring into the coals and contemplating if eating more cheese is the right decision to make at this point. The answer: there is no such thing as too much cheese. I bounce my knee to to the music my father has begun playing. My smile stays as I munch on a cracker spread thickly with good cheese that is filled with herbs.
          "The cheeseboard is very nice, Iris. Thanks for making it." Dad praises as he huffs back down into his chair and pops a salty olive into his mouth as if to prove his appreciation.
          I hum and smile some more, picking at the lichen that has grown on the rain-weathered wood of my arm rest.
          It really is a beautiful night.