I let the wind dissipate my nerves as it blew away the smoke. What if my tragically comic ineptitude at starting campfires ruins the whole thing? Tonight it looked as if I would get off that hook, but my heart fluttered like fall leaves anyway.
Out from the window-glowing kitchen came Joseph, his widening, partly sideways gait accentuated by his efforts to hold the plastic plate steady. Graham crackers, slabs of chocolate, marshmallows. I had already brought out the skewers.
The fire was finishing with the newspaper and rounding up around the biggest log in orangey licks. We sat on the edge of the Adirondack chairs and stabbed marshmallows and held them over the glowing furnace. Above, stars dotted the black triangles between the palm fronds, little dull whiteblue sapphires. The wind clattered citrus branches into their own percussion.
Now was the moment I was supposed to make. Here was the father-son junction. And…nothing. I had nothing in the Profound In-Box.
Then Joseph pulled back his marshmallow and regarded it with the eye of an expert. We assembled the magic sandwiches.
“How can you not have a fire and make ‘smores on a perfect night?” he said.
We sat back on our chairs and looked at the stars, content. — Adam Barr