Sparks Fly

As the music of the party pounds on our ears, suffocating the room with vibrations, we walk out the back door. The oak door closes with a slam as the tart cold of autumn greets us. Slowly, we walk around the house, on the frozen sidewalk as our shoes click against the cement. Through the cold rod iron gate, we pass the old sycamore tree and the fallen leaves crunch beneath our feet. As the moon wanes it paints cold shadows, dark and mysterious, along the dead lawn. You are quiet, with your head down and your arms hugging your chest; your silent demeanor fills the icy air. From my back pocket, I pull out a small pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a BIC lighter. I offer you one and you nod gracefully. The lighter sparks illuminating the night. I slide my finger down the sparker once more and this time a flame appears. Its orange glow flows and flickers around us. Lighting my cigarette with a puff, I hand the lighter to you and watch as you do the same. As the tobacco ignites, the stingy smell dances to my nose. The glow illuminates your distinct face momentarily. Glowing orange, like the end of your cigarette, you look and smile at me. “Every person you write about is an old, crass, relative holding a cigarette.”Taking a drag, you pull the slender stick out of your mouth and blow out the smoke with skill.“Yes, all of my relatives smoked and drank. Good thing I’m starting at a young age, huh?”I laugh. You always have a sadistic humour about the outcome of your life.“I’ll probably end the same as them anyway. Old, alone, and traveling the world. It’s the family curse.”“You won’t be alone though,” I say.You will travel the world, go places. I know at a young age, you will see what you can do with your life. You’ll find someone to travel with. As you go off to college, preferably in New York, you will feel the bitter chill of other winters, the warmth of summers far from here. At times, I wish I could follow your path. I long for it. I am spontaneous, you follow the rules, do what is put in front of you without question.We continue to smoke until our cigarettes are dead. As you walk back towards the party, you drop your cigarette. As it slowly falls through the air and hits the ground sparks fly, once again illuminating the cold, moonlit night. As each spark ignites, another is quenched. The light comes and goes in an instant. I look up and you are gone.