Dominique Hecq
Today’s word is fire.
You can smell it in the air. In full light, specks of ash twirl and swirl like a miniature beehive. The water is slick with sunlight. I dive in. Touch the bottom—unsettled silt, rocks. Surfacing, I feel the water flowing ice-cold over my shoulders. I begin to swim. Long strokes upstream towards the fall. My chest expands, arms bracing the water. I don’t feel the cold, but my toes and fingertips are numb. Dappled glare on the surface of the water, then the brush of hair-like roots. I dive through the fall, water drumming my back. A red sandstone outcrop, porous soil, a cave. In one step, I’m inside. Wait for my eyes to get accustomed to the dark. On a slab of stone, a smatter of nuggets: reds, ochres, whites. On the walls, a splash of fingernail moons.
History lesson
Again and again, we work the sand on the beach in the backyard. Today, we build mountains and towers and castles in the air. We hollow out tunnels. Bury our bottoms, feet and legs in the squeaky sand, erasing all traces of the Dark Ages with its fortresses, battlefields and armies. In the blink of an eye gone are the Renaissance, the Restoration, the Discovery of the New World, the French Revolution, the Declaration of Human Rights. The Great Depression and the Return of the Repressed. We uncover broken records, heels, shells, husks, knife blades, picks and spurs. Stirrups, crampons, hooks. I unearth a shattered honey pot, a bottle top, the head of a doll. Bones. I try reviving a dead bird. Look at the sky’s vault. Sing (repeat) Ten thousand miles away. I take a deep breath. A giant leap. Yes! I land on the moon and bump into Neil Armstrong.