first burn
i remember my first burn: a plume of embers jumps from the barbecue pit my abuelo welded with his two hands. my father continues to poke at the fire’s belly to make sure it’s awake--it tickles, it tickles, the laugh that brightens the whole backyard--i swear it’s daylight in that moment. i’m dazzled, looking at each cinder beam with glee before disappearing into the dark. i tried, selfishly, to catch one, to keep like one would with a firefly. looking into my palms, i was confused as to why soot stared back at me, as if to ask, “what are you expecting?”
my father tells the fire another joke--this one’s a good one--a thunderous guffaw erupts, a ribbon of tears comes alive. i just saw how stars are born. i follow as many as i can with eager eyes until the last one dissipates. the sky is brighter now. i feel a sting on my left arm. i instinctively reach to swat a bug but stop myself just in time. a star, winking at me, says hello before starting my first constellation; i’m no different from the heavenly bodies that watch me dream.
written 9 dec 2022, 9:39pm