Burn Memory

“Do you understand why we’re here, Roy?” The therapist leans toward me in his foldable chair. Instead of our usual room, he moved us to a storage room at the edge of his dingy building in West Oakland. A room without a table, couch, artwork, not even a power outlet. Besides our chairs and the door, a lone sprinkler hangs from the ceiling.

“I’m not a pyro,” I whisper.

“No one’s accusing you of anything.”

The fire marshal insisted Pop bring me here. Pop, who was already suspicious. The way this therapist stares at me. Everyone thinks my brother Hayden or I set the fire that killed Mom. And because Hayden was passed out when the firefighters rushed in, that points the guilty finger at me.

Or they can’t stomach that I’m here. She’s not. And who believes a ten-year-old?

“Not a pyro.”

“Well, you’re more correct than you know.” His voice raises to that annoying tone a teacher takes. “You see, pyromania is a compulsion disorder. And quite rare.”

I stop from rolling my eyes.

“Curiosity about fire is natural.” He leans back in his chair.

“Oh?” If playing along gets me out of these required sessions faster …

“Well, fire’s a powerful tool. Keeps us warm. Cooks our food. Shapes metal and plastic and so many manufactured things.”

That’s heat, not fire.

“Kinda pretty too, isn’t it?” His eyes relax and wander. “Such graceful shapes. Lovely colors.”

This is why I don’t trust grown-ups.

“But the important thing is to not get carried away. Fire’s just a tool. That we reach for and put away, just like any tool. That’s just what we’re going to practice today.”

Just, just, just — don’t you know any other way to talk to kids without simplifying everything?

Wait.

“Practice?” I blurt out.

He reaches for something in his pocket. When I look up at his face, he’s watching me. A small matchbox appears in his palm, like a magic trick.

“Yes, practice.”

He rattles the box. Pulls out a match.

“Our control …,” he lights it with a quick strike, “… over this tool …,” and blows out the flame with a quick puff, “… that we know is only a tool.”

His eyes stare at the smoke trails and the charred, black head of the match.

“And nothing more. Right, Roy?” The therapist hands me the matchbox. “Your turn.”

I do as he says. Strike, linger, blow. Chant “only a tool,” as the real tool says.

What was that?

I close my eyes as I strike the next match. The harsh scratch reminds me of a long pencil stroke pressing against paper. A roughness of something new forming in the dark, emerging lines.

“Only a tool, remember?”

“Only a tool.” I open my eyes.

This flame takes new shapes in all the ways the tip moves and flickers. The way my inhales pull it closer and exhales push it away. So tiny and bright. Instantly changing the mood. Like Mom’s candles. I don’t want to blow this out.

But I don’t need another reminder of where those candles got her.

I exhale and blow. Goodbye.

After I go through the entire box and the room smells like a blown-out birthday cake, he asks how I feel. Grief counseling never helped this much.

But I can’t feel this. I can do better than Pop’s fists. Better than Mom and her candles. Better than what hurt my brother. Only a tool, only a tool, only…

But when I shut my eyes, the little flames dance and pull closer, closer with each breath. This pull is the first thing I’ve felt since I realized she was still in the burning house. That no matter how much I cursed or walloped the firefighter’s stupid helmet, he wasn’t going back in. My brother and I were lucky to be alive, they said.

Lucky. But not stupid. I know not to play with matches.

So, I decide to steal a candle. Candles are okay. No one lights a candle to start a real fire, right?

The therapist moves from his chair and takes the matchbox. I didn’t realize he kept talking. Please don’t let there be a quiz.

He strolls to the trash in the corner. Pauses. Rattles the matchbox again. Sounds softer when full of spent matches. He pockets the box. Turns back to me.

“Well done, Roy. Until next time?”

Can’t wait to talk more about how I feel about having every item in my life replaced by a pile of unwanted donations. At least the neighbors noticed us after the fire.

Outside, I close the door to the room and look up at Pop. Hayden started calling him that instead of “Dad,” since that’s the sound his hands make when—

“Head mechanic done with your tune-up?” Pop asks with a chuckle.

I shrug.

We climb in the car, and he rips out of the lot. A few minutes on, he misses the turn to the hospital.

“We’re not gonna check on Hayden?” I ask.

Pop starts to roll his eyes but catches himself. “Visiting hours are over.”

I don’t call him on the lie. I doubt Pop’s sober face will help my brother get out of the burn ward faster. You’re not supposed to stare, but everyone does.

The matches light a curiosity I don’t have. Each baby flame sparks and soothes and stretches into my belly and lungs and tingling fingertips long after the smoke’s gone.

* * *

The next day after school, I bus and walk to a random small store we’ve never been to before. In a strip mall sandwiched between a thrift store and whatever a consignment shop is.

Bells jingle over the door when I enter. The pot-bellied clerk glances up with a smile and hopeful eyes until he sees me. Pale face and big empty pockets in shorts passed on from a taller kid in our neighborhood. Would’ve brought my allowance — except I’ve never gotten one. I get a nod and he goes back to folding the pages of the Oakland Tribune at his register.

The store’s so quiet among its three long aisles I can almost hear the dust settling on the shelves under the fizz of tube lights. I walk slow. Like Mom. Shopping with her eyes.

I find the candles in the back of the middle aisle.

I glance back. The clerk can’t see me. I palm a medium-sized one.

That’ll fit.

I lower my backpack.

Should’ve unzipped it first to not make a sound…

But I remember Mom’s smile when she picked one.

Put my closed backpack on my shoulders. Grab the candle. Walk over to the register. The clerk glances up. “Will this be it, young man?”

“I’m sorry sir, I … you see …”

He lets me take my time.

“I don’t have any money.” I glance at my shoes. “Aren’t you supposed to light a candle for someone when they …”

I try to blink away the burn in my eyes.

“Who died?” he asks.

“My mom.”

His plump face softens. “And you wanted to commemorate her?”

“Yeah.” The lie slips out of me as smooth as one of Pop’s. Learn from the worst. “Is there … anything I can trade you for one of these? Any work I can do?”

He sighs and glances at the candle. “Was that her favorite color?”

“Huh?” I didn’t even think about the color.

“Did she have a scent she liked? Or a flower?” He walks out from behind the counter and moves to the back.

“I don’t know the name. It made the house smell like flowers, but sweet, like those tiny white flowers.”

He soon comes back with a similar-sized candle that’s golden and milky. He comes right up to me and puts it in my hands.

“Take this one. Honeysuckle.”

“What do I —”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Take it.”

I know I’m supposed to smile. Say thanks. Feel gratitude or something. But I don’t like how his eyes look down at me now, reminding me of her. Matches are the only ones that don’t judge.

I force a grin, a nod. Stumble out of the shop with the little bells above the door ringing like before. Except this time the jingle sings liar, liar.

* * *

The old fridge rumbles in the dark kitchen and reminds me of how a place is never really quiet. I used to lie awake at night, with Hayden on the top bunk. I’d ask if he heard that noise and pretend his snores replied that things were okay. More comforting than being pushed out of Mom and Pop’s room with the door lock clicking in my face. But after Pop was snoring again, Mom always checked on me. I saw her shape in our doorway. I felt her warmth and imagined her soft voice, though she never patted my head, never asked if I was still awake, never entered the room. Her presence quieted all the noises until she blended into darkness.

Now, I shiver in this unlit kitchen in Pop’s crummy apartment he got after our old crummy house burned down.

My backpack’s already by the table, where I left it this afternoon. He never looks inside. I place the candle on the table and its glass holder makes a THONK.

Shh, I whisper to myself before remembering that whispers are noises too.

I slither open a drawer and pick through it for the flimsy matches from the bar. The quiet, tear-off kind that’ll keep a secret even when rattled.

It takes a few strikes.

The candle comes alive. And the hard wax around the wick turns gooey.

No one’s here to tell me fire’s only a tool. Or berate me for liking crap boys shouldn’t like. Or even tell my fingers to be careful. No one’s here.

The flame knows. The wax grows — halfway to the edge of the glass now.

Pop’s bed creaks. He curses each heavy step to his door.

I puff the candle out. My chest braces for his rage. Watch the smoke trail up into the popcorn ceiling and wonder who else could see its trails in the dark.

The bathroom door opens and closes.

I breathe again.

The door opens again. He sniffs.

I cover the candle with both palms. The heat of the glass stings my fingers until I’m biting my lip and pleading for him to leave.

“Must be losing it. I still … smell you.” Pop sniffles.

Nothing like hearing a monster cry.

And I kinda want to let go. Let it screw with him. Let him cry. Let my hands not melt into this hot glass and tears flow, and I know they’ll flow if I make a peep and get it for breaking the rules and run away like she tried to run away.

But I sit with the sting until he shuffles back to bed. Hide the smelly candle in a musty poncho from the pile of things donated to replace everything we’ve lost. Go to bed with red rings on my palms that only my brother would ask about.

* * *

Days later, I still can’t forget the candle in the dark or the whimper of Pop trying not to cry. I want to say something, but the corners of his eyes get so sharp when Hayden mentions her in the hospital …

That night, I wait for him to go pee and snore again before I sneak into the kitchen with the candle.

It takes one match.

Flowers fill my lungs. The round kitchen table glows in flickering light. I imagine the candle spreading past the wax, the glass, the flame truly making the table alive.

I don’t blame it for hurting me. It knows how to protect itself.

I watch the glow and wait for the wax to get all gooey. Waiting doesn’t bug me. The flame hushes the noises of Pop’s place, like Mom dismissing nightmares by standing in the doorway.

I yawn but want to stay up until the wax has all changed.

But it doesn’t reach the glass.

Halfway between the wick and the rest of the candle, it stops melting out. The pool deepens and deepens but won’t grow wider.

I use up the three remaining matches relighting the candle, but it’s no use.

* * *

Can’t ask Pop why. Can’t tell the therapist about matches I’m not supposed to have. So here I am again, even more hidden in a hoodie. The store’s busier today, and I keep myself busy until he makes time for me after helping two real customers.

The clerk’s plump face melts with sadness, melts like the wax wouldn’t. “Hello again.”

I stare up. Wave.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I have a question.”

His eyes perk up, like a teacher waiting for me to get to the point.

“A candle question.”

“I hope I have a burning answer.” He chuckles.

If you ever wonder why kids get quiet around grown-ups, it’s things like that.

“What’s your question?”

“My candle won’t burn all the way.”

His face shifts into something serious again. “Is the wick too short to light?”

“No, lights fine. But it seems weak.” My voice seems weak.

“Weak how?”

“Like, all the wax won’t burn.”

“Ah, does it make a small circle around the wick?”

I nod and my fingers drum the counter between us. Stop being nervous.

“But it doesn’t melt the wax all the way to the edge?”

“Yeah, how come?”

“The first time you lit it, when did you blow it out?”

“When …” I pause. Can’t tell him I was hiding it.

“I’m sure your mom appreciated being remembered,” he offers in a much softer voice. “What I mean is, did you blow it out early? Before say, an hour?”

“Yeah, definitely less than an hour.”

“That’s called burn memory.”

I shudder and lean away from the counter.

“You see, melted wax is easier to melt again than new wax. So, if you blow out a candle early the first time you light it, before the top layer of wax has all melted, it’ll be harder to melt it all.”

He swirls his stubby finger like a drill.

“It’s easier for it to tunnel, to dig a deeper hole, than to melt what never has. The wax remembers the first time it was burned.”

“Burn memory,” I whisper.

“Wax memory might be more accurate. Some people say candle memory.”

No, I like burn memory.

“So, what you want to do —”

The bells jingle on the door. In the time it takes him to greet his new customer, I leave and exit through the door.

Outside, I look away from the direction of Pop’s.

I hear the jingling bells again. My heart races.

“Wait!”

I stop and turn back, slow. The clerk huffs up to me.

“Wait, don’t you want to know how to fix it? Enjoy the rest of the candle?”

I look up without a single question on my mind. I never want to see this man or his store again. Never see sad eyes staring. I shake my head, nice and slow, making a fat period at the end of a long sentence.

“Okay, man. But hey.” He catches his breath and looks around. “If you need to uh, talk, or have another candle question … I’m always here till six.”

A bus rattles by without stopping. I stare at it like I missed it.

“Sorry. Take care,” he says.

I nod. Turn. Exhale. Keep walking.

Three blocks on, after I’m sure he’s gone, I reach into my pocket. Inside the red ring of my palm, a new box of matches appears like a magic trick. I rattle a hello out of my wooden friends. Close my eyes and see the coming dark.

Who needs candles or their memories.