A Pocket Archive (42)

Sometimes I wonder how many prayer cards I've burned.

I wish that I had counted. But I'm not sure that I could, even if I tried. Another one lay in a grey, flaking heap at the bottom of the ashtray, flecks of scorched paper being carried off like snowflakes on the icy January wind.

It was cold today; so cold that I could feel it in my bones, despite the layers of warm clothing and the blankets over my shoulders. And yet, a fire was smoldering somewhere deep within my spirit, threatening to erupt, into laughter, into tears, or maybe into both simultaneously. It was certainly an interesting time to be alive.

I was proud- so very, very proud- and undeniably excited, but it was nothing compared to the fire I felt coursing through my blood, tingling like a spell that made me feel invincible, as though wings might erupt from my back at any moment and carry me off the balcony. It was hard not to pace back and forth, or to rock backwards on my heels whenever I stopped.

I pulled my pipe out of my hoodie pocket, packed, and lit it, coaxing a plume of fragrant smoke to rise from its bowl as I breathed in the sweet, scorched taste of the tobacco, enjoying how it stung against my tongue before disapating like the prayer before it. It felt wonderful in contrast to the bitter, whistling wind that threatened to bite my nose off.

I closed my eyes, exhaling another into the icy evening air.

I felt like a dragon.

And I was here to burn.