I made it no secret to you that I grew up next door to a magician.
I was in love with everything he did, made it my mission to memorize it all.
So I played our love like a trick deck, a loaded die.
I thought I knew every illusion.
One day, he showed me a trick based in science.
You blow a candle out, let the red ember die, and just as the smoke starts rising from the wick, you hold an unlit match in it.
You see, the Magician explained to me, the smoke is still combustible. The fire is dead, but its possibility lingers in the smoky aftermath – a flame is lit once more where it was thought to be gone.
Our smoke never lifted after our flame flickered to its death.
With passing time, it rises and falls in waves around us – Our day walking the beach, our moments at the hidden creek, our midnight on the lake, our smoke has always been water, drowning, pulling me down until I can no longer see the surface.
Or else it is fire, burning red hot, scorching my skin until the burn lingers so I dare not forget where you have left your mark.
And the smoke around us is so thick, choking me with the possibility, and I am scared of what it means.
Scared of the flame, of the drowning, of the tricks.
K.A.
