Crossing
Faith, Travel (Miscellaneous) January 29th, 2009
I lay three fatted twigs along the fireplace’s grate, and stretch an Ossipee log across them. I have loosened handfuls of splinters along its face, in the hope of encouraging flames. It is a dark morning; new snow has fallen. There is precious little paper, and no real kindling. I tear strips from a brown bag, and twist them into chords. These I stuff into the gaps between the log, the grate and the twigs.
The match in my right hand resembles blond hair, rigidly shellacked. It flares easily; no more force is required to ignite it against a sandpaper square than one might exert on a pencil’s lead, when signing one’s name to a page. I touch the matchhead’s flame to the tip of each twig. For a moment, they sweat grease. Then a sound like breath through gritted teeth, and one by one they ignite.
An inch and a half of each must be burned before the log will be met. My three small fires suck sap from these twigs like children emptying bones. A few of my paper twists start to burn; they are slow in unfurling. I grow tired of watching, and rise to make tea. My feet are cold along the floor, and in their stiffness I think of Abbu. He is the only member of the immediate family whom I have yet to meet. I ask my husband to describe his father, and comb his answers for clues. Abbu is the shyest, the most imaginative. He is a day-dreamer for all that I know; or perhaps like Baji, artistic? There is little satisfaction in guessing. I seek similarities between us in history. In railways, in camels, in poetry; in dua, migration, tea.
The full post is at othermatters.org…