Fire

I remember when humans discovered fire
How it so profoundly changed our lives
Once we knew how to control it
How to perpetuate it
How to recreate it.

I remember when I would play with matches
On Dead Man’s Hill
Next to the last farm in the Bronx
And how my father, the fireman,
Always knew I had done so.

I remember being in the firehouse on Gunhill Rd
With all those wonderful engines
The shiny red and silver equipment
Even a pole I could slide down
And huge rubber boots I stood in
That came up to my thighs.

I remember riding in the battalion chief’s car
My father was his driver
They were friends, the chief and my father.
I was allowed to ring the bell.

I remember the first time I cooked anything
How brave and independent I felt
Turning on the stove
My parents still asleep
Breaking the eggs
Dropping them in the pan
Where they sizzled.

I remember my great grandmother
Lighting the Sabbath candles
Passing her palms through the flames
and bringing her warm hands to her eyes
Rocking back and forth,
reciting the blessings.

I remember my mother cooking
In our apartment on the 10th floor
Of a New York City highrise
And how she smoked, one cigarette
Only one cigarette
Every day abed before bedtime
In violation of the fireman’s warnings.

I remember campfires
Songs and stories
Ghosts and demons
Friends and marshmallows.

And, of course, the fire
When our communal house burned to the ground
The loss of tools, clothing, furniture,
Photographs, memories.
The house burned and smoked for days
Down into the basement
The foundation
Where all the foods we preserved that summer were ruined.

And today, this fire
The one burning within all of us
Sitting at Not Enough Acres farm
Writing in our notebooks
Opening our hearts.