Uganda, November

Go through the motions, Adam. Act out being alive, like a play. And after awhile, a long while, it will be true.
--John Steinbeck, East of Eden



A fire once red and vast. Dwindling, whispering, blue now. Colder than I thought it could be, would be. Born red, it would die red, I thought. Falter was never a word it knew. Unchanging, constant, alive, is what it knew.

It’s faltering now. I’m holding a match in one hand, a gas bottle in the other. I’m standing here, watching it. A pathetic light, barely any warmth. I’m tempted to reach in, to wind my fingers around with the smoke; they can’t be real flames. They can’t.

Should I add to it, will I add to it? Should I stir it, breathe into it, bring it back? Or do I stand here, watching, waiting for it to rise on its own?
My breathing is fast, “all worked up” is what they call it. I’m sure my eyes are darting—a bit like what I want to do. Dart, away from this, toward something else, a stronger, brighter, hungrier flame.

This fire is nothing. What I am seeing, feeling, as the orange shines against my skin, as the smell sinks into my clothes, is nothing.
I want it to be everything, like it was before. High and red. The logs used to crackle and move, they were so uncomfortable. But now it’s nothing.

I know it’s everything. Must be everything. Was everything yesterday, must be everything today. Will be everything tomorrow, whether I can see it and feel it or not. I’ll keep standing here, keep watching. I will not walk away. I’ll wait for the flame to come back. It will come back, and I will be here when it does. I will not falter, and it will come back.