I used to think that love was a wildfire. A hot, passionate, all-engulfing blaze, sometimes fleeting and often times destructive. The kind of fire that consumes and takes everything for itself. That exciting, fervid heat that tears through the dry brush of the heart, bringing destruction to all it touches and with it, a chance to start over from nothing. A white-hot bolt of lightning illuminating the whole sky. Electric. A summer night’s kiss on the hood of the car that is so conductively charged, the engine might spontaneously turn over from the contact.
You think you might not survive it. You’re not even sure you want to.
Now that I have more years – and in theory a measure of wisdom – under my belt, I still think that love is fire.
It’s the orange-blue embers that smolder in a deep stone fireplace in the heart of a woodland cabin. Quiet, save for the occasional crackle and pop of the logs it slowly, methodically devours. The kind of fire that gives itself to warm others, lights up the dark, soothes the world-weary bones that have been out in the cold too long. It is the smoke billowing from a tall red brick chimney, signaling a safe place – a refuge from the elements. The fire that though it may sleep for a night, is certain to resume its work in the morning radiating heat and lighting the darkness. Dependable. A gentle hand on the small of my back, reassuring me that we’re in this together.
Still hot, still potentially destructive, but a comfort to everyone who feels it.
You know it’ll always be there, no matter what you do or where you go, and there’s no satisfaction in the world greater than that.