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:

Destruction.

Chaos.

Obliteration.

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.