I'm bored. I'm board. I'm a board. I am a piece of wood. If I am a piece of wood, then I must float. If I float, I must weigh the same as a duck. If I weigh the same as a duck....then you must think I'm a witch! Please don't burn me! I'm not a witch. I'm just a slice of tree! I will bring you flame and fire, warmth and the smell of wood burning, which is a nice smell. 

I always liked that smell. It reminds me of camping: dark nights, crickets whirring in cadence, flames crackling, night wind tossing in the trees, and me huddled up in my wool blanket, next to the fire pit, holding a stick of goo over the hot blue flame, deep inside. It catches fire. I throw it in between a couple of crackers, squeeze it shut while it pulls off the stick, I melt a chunk of chocolate in between, and toss it in my mouth before it has a chance to cool. Wait, I am a piece of wood. I am IN the fire!

https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2012/09/10/20/42/fire-56677_960_720.jpg

It reminds me of winter mornings, getting ready for school. I could hear a shredding sound as my dad tore up last week's newspaper and rustled around in the bed of ash making a tee pee of paper and tinder. I would pull the blankets up over my ears, and let my nose poke out, just enough to feel the chill bite my nostrils. Nope. I would not be getting out of bed today. Not unless Dad could get that fire blazing hot. 

And he always did. Every morning. 6 am. Before everyone was up. How did he manage to brave the cold like that? All alone in the dark house. The rest of us snug in our beds? What sacrifice.