by Mel George
How could a fire that burned so bright and laughed and danced and sang with light be snuffed out by just one dark night? That fire which loved, and searched, and gave, and braved the hazy lands of mystery with such infectious energy, and shared with me a white-hot wonder – snuffed out with two careless fingers – just like that. Not possible. It couldn’t have been, and no wonder it seemed so untrue. It was impossible to quench you.
What happens on the earth to the threads you were holding? To the things still unfolding? To the awe we were learning; to the flames you kept burning in your yearning to know?
A grey morning dawned and it seemed we’d just dreamed the adventure. The onslaught of pain and then all things mundane damped us out like the rain. Wildfire defeated by drizzle.
Or so it appeared. But the one with the matches who first lit your spark has no fear of the dark and that fire was not finished. The great Arsonist who started the blaze has deeper, wiser and subtler ways than some old candlesnuffer. For I suddenly saw that, though one fire was dead, those same bright and dancing flames had spread and were living in me; and your mum; and our friends; and far from dwindling they leaped to new kindling, igniting hearts with a roar, burning cobwebs away.
I laughed the darkness to scorn that day, as I saw now beyond a scrap of doubt that your wildfire would never be put out.