At four years old I became a pyromaniac,
Set fire to the living-room lamp,
It was an experiment.
I wanted to see how difficult it would be for a flame to defeat me.
I touched lit candle to the dangly fabric bulbs hanging from the lamp shade
It bursted up, caught all the dust and the handmade paisley curtains
They too met the touch of physical heat,
And before I knew it, the corner of the living-room was a roaring devil.
I do not remember the heat on my face, or the melting paint on the walls
I recall a reflection of the monster I had made, glittering in my eyes.
I ran to my mother, she was shut in the bathroom
I called out to her
“This is the only time I get to myself” she shouted
With more apprehension than what I showed the fire
I told her the living room was ablaze.
The door busted open, and there was a woman, my mother
Pants around her ankles and a bucket full of water.
One douse was all it would take to ease the disaster I created.
Only charred walls and a destroyed lamp remained.

A few weeks later I dreamt of a fire, only it was the whole world on fire.
House half burned to the ground, I went to find my mother.
Opening the bathroom door I said softly “I’m sorry”
When to my terror there was a woman, pants around her ankles
But her body caught the fire, a skeleton mother
She spun her head and looked me dead in the eye
I shrieked and ran away and then awoke realizing it was a dream
Mother was okay, the world was not on fire, and I need not be afraid.
The memory of this dream stayed with me as I aged.
It is only now that I realize I could never set the world ablaze
It has always been this way
It is only now that I realize some people catch the fire
Turn to skeleton and ash.
Nothing remains, but
it is my choice if the flames should defeat me.
And I would be wise to not tempt the fire.