“How about this one, Dad?”
“It’s a bit wet, still green, but you’ve found a good one in that same gathering. Look to the left, past the thorny bush.”
And it was a fine log, a large branch, really. Dry, and small enough for him to carry, but dense enough that he’d build some confidence and pride in carrying it back.
I balanced a long log on my shoulder and asked him to fill my arms with more wood.
“How do you do that? That’s huge, Dad!”
“Balance just requires that we find the center of things.”
Some of the wood we’d collected was still damp from the recent rain. The fire flickered unconvincingly, smoldering, and he seemed disappointed.
“It’s ready.” I said, rolling over two of the logs, pushing them close to each other.
Within a moment or two, the logs gave birth to large flames, filling the rusted ring, leaping toward the sky, tho never quite reaching, and in silent-moment’s worship, we gave evening’s convergence its due.