Playing with Fire
by Laney Giusti '19

I was only five years old when Mother told me not to play with fire, but five year olds don't listen very well. A lit candle was placed across the table, just about arms length away. I watched the flame twirl and dance, begging me to feel its warmth. Two minutes later, I sat crying in Mothers lap as she held a wet cloth around my blackened finger tips. I was only five years old when I had learn that even something as beautiful as fire can hurt me. From then on, I grew up listening to Mother and lighting my candles with caution.
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I was no longer a child when I met you, but nevertheless Mother still told me not to play with fire. She often reminded me that vigilance was a virtue; I guess she noticed those flames in your eyes before I did. The times that I spent with you were warm, as you were my light, but those flames  kept growing bigger and bigger with every passing month. The fire was spreading and soon everything was set ablaze, leaving nothing but a pile of ashes in our place. I can no longer light a match or feel the heat from the sun on my back without being reminded of the burns that you left me. You are the fire Mother had warned me about when I was only five years old.