My mother always told me not to play with matches.
I listened to her
When she was around.
But the moment she left the house,
I could cross to the other world.
I liked to play with the matches.
The flame's dance was captivating,
Creating a light that could never be artificially recreated.
One day, by accident,
I dropped the match.
It fell onto the kitchen counter,
Catching fire to the paper towel rolls.
It wasn't too serious, unfortunately.
But I discovered another one of fire's amazing properties:
Whatever you want to call it.
My mother came home soon after, though,
And I had to wait till she left in the morning again.
When she did,
I took the matches out of their box,
And started looking for flammable things that I treasured.
I put it at a distance from me, outside.
And threw the lit match at it.
It burst into flames,
As did my heart when my childhood toy was set ablaze
And I loved it.
My fascination with matches and fire in my childhood
Is what brings me here,
A can of oil in one hand
And my favorite matches in the other,
In front of my mother's home for a friendly visit.