The first fire was at Otto McGrady's. The next one burned down Harold and Marion's barn just a pace down the road. It was thought that arsonist's had started them, but in Ohio it could just have easily been one of those blaring lightning bolts that hit often and offensively. As a kid, my father would gather us all into the old heap of a car and off we would go to see if we could be of any help, and for what I suspected was more about watching a thing of terror and a thing beauty similtaneously. Fire.

I have a love of fire that stems from those barn burnings. I am drawn like a clock is to time. Once the boys told me when they were in gradeschool the sirens went off a blazing and fire engines pulled out of the station in what promised to be a grand fire somewhere. The kids just turned to mine in the playground and said " oh it's probably just your ma with her brush fire." It has been a long standing understanding that when I "pass" the boys are to toss me on top of our burn pile. By the time the engines arrive I will be just a pile of thoughts.

I get this love of fire from my mother, no doubt, who set an entire field on fire" burnin" the trash on a windy day and I watched in horror as my eyelashes floated down onto my writing paper like fine ashes the day after I battled yet another field fire with my brother and sisters. We would grab empty feed bags to beat out the flames. The flames often won.

The fire burns now in the stove as I sit with Caleb and read to him and with the very same intention set forth as a burning fire ...I set my intention for him. To sweep forward without looking back with regret over what is lost.