I only got a wisp of smoke those first few months.
I felt the heat of the sparks. Saw the smoke rise up to the sky, to the heavens.
And then the wind blew the smoke away in one swift gust of air, leaving behind the memories that burned like embers.
Small, yet tiny stings of pain that pricked my skin every once in a while.
Yet these memories of the smoke I still smelled and the sparks I still felt brought pleasure as well.
And maybe the lingering fire that never really built up, never really roared, still burned in my heart–tiny and whispering a name–even though the smoke had cleared.
That initial wisp, though, was enough to keep that small flame enveloped in my heart, wrapped in warmth and something I cannot describe. It still burns, driving out the darkness of doubt and shedding a light of hope, even if it is a tiny ray.
It’s something. Something to hold on to, something to nurture while I wait for the wisp of smoke to return to me. While I wait for the flame to burn out the darkness.
While I wait for the ignition of the sparks once again.