Stewart Dawson
Little Bonfires
I remember birthday parties. I especially remember birthday cakes with candles. Make a wish, blow them all out in one breath, and your wish would come true. Birthday presents, “Pin the Tail on the Donkey”, balloons and ice cream to go with the cake. All those things made birthdays very special. But the candles on the cake: they were at the top of my little kid list. Five years old, blow them all out, then six, then seven… then one day there would be too many years and not enough room for all the candles.
Once, as a small child, when I was about seven, I remember getting out of bed in the middle of the night and staring out of a large window at a bonfire burning outside. There were dark, faceless people gathered around the fire like shadows of children around a birthday cake. I wonder now, if the people were facing the fire or looking away from it. But I don’t remember thinking that when I was little. I knew the people were grownups. It was a bonfire for them, not for children: alcohol, cigarettes, adult conversation, debate, complaint and other things that are for adults. The fire was outside the window and it didn’t seem real to me. It was distant and unreachable like that elusive “true love”. So I climbed back into bed, fell back to sleep and began growing older.
Many birthdays later, this story was written. It was written inside of a different bonfire, a fire that burned behind her eyes. The fire leapt and spat and crackled and she glowed in silhouette as we talked. I liked meeting her that night. I felt good and alive and important that she wanted to talk to me. I remember thinking how pretty she was. And I made a wish. But I was so young. This story was born inside that fire like a star. From hot, primordial gases and pressure and gravity, the essence of these words swirled and vibrated and gathered and took on form and meaning. The words became this story like a brand new little solar system, spinning, congealing, evolving inside the fire. This story became the star at the center and the words of this story became the planets and moons and comets and asteroids all revolving around the star. 546 little words circling the story inside the fire. This story burned hot and fast and furious.
And the words of this story were glowing embers, hearts beating within the life of the fire; pulsing, dimming, glowing, fading, bursting, living, breathing. The words of this story sparked and crackled and danced upon the border between tangible concept and consumption, fiery metamorphosis, the transition from substance to ash. Like the transition from love at first glance to ultimate loss, fear and despair. Or like the forever childhood burning away from youth.
And the words of this story exploded into a crown of sparks that were carried upward by the heat and floated away to cool and fade and blow into the late night wind with so many other words. Somewhere (maybe long ago), there are seven little bonfires burning on a big chocolate cake waiting for the breath of a child to blow them out with a wish. I am sure there is a story something like this burning in each one of them.