Fiction Friday – Kindling

I was about seven years old, sitting cross-legged in the loungeroom, as I watched my father light the fire. He had pushed me back to a safe distance, but also out of his way. He struck the match and it flared, brightened, retracted. Kept alive by my father’s hand as he tilted the flame to consume more of the matchstick. He reached into the kindling and touched the flame to the shredded newspaper within. I watched in fascination as the newspaper burned, licking around the edges of the kindling, tapering down. Having enough energy to ignite the small twigs and thinner strips of cut down fence palings. Kept an eye on my father as he monitored the flame, having the knack to know when to add more fuel to keep the fire alight. It was years later I understood that starting an argument is the same as starting a fire: you introduce friction. Years of accumulated kindling would burn for decades.