By way of explanation: I sometimes participate in Twitter hashtag games, and because I can’t leave well enough alone, I will take those tweets and bulk them up for Instagram. The problem is sometimes I bulk them up to the point that they’re too big for the ‘Gram. So, instead of deleting them, as I usually do, I’ve decided to post them here. What’s the sense of having a writer’s blog if I can’t post my scribbles?

Original Tweet (the prompt word was #grow):

I do not smoke, nor am I an arsonist; however, I am never without matches, for it is the only time I get to see my late daughter’s face as the flame grows taller, her hair all aflame, just like it always was in the sunlight.

The too large for Instagram remix:

As the sun set behind the horizon, casting an orange glow over the sky, I found myself once again standing in front of the fireplace, a matchbox clutched tightly in my hand. I do not smoke, nor am I an arsonist, but I am never without matches. For in the flickering flames, I catch a glimpse of my late daughter’s face, her hair all aflame, just like it always was in the sunlight.

Tragic was the accident that stole my daughter from me. A fire raged through our home, consuming everything in its path, and even my daughter, so full of life, proved insufficient to satiate its gluttonous appetite. The pain of losing a child is indescribable, a pain that hollowed out my soul and left a void in my heart that a multiverse of galaxies could never fill.

In her death’s aftermath, my loneliness and despair drew me to fire. I wanted to confront her killer, make it explain why it had chosen her instead of me. But I proved no match for the dancing flames that held a mesmerizing power over me, and I would often spend hours staring into the flickering embers, lost in memories of my precious girl. And in my obsession, my mind had surely snapped, for when I struck a match one lonely night, I saw her again, her face glowing in the warm light.

The moment was fleeting, a brief glimpse of her smile as the match caught fire. But as time went on, the visions became more vivid. I could see her clearly, her bright blue eyes, her curly golden hair, and I could even hear her infectious laughter. Did my daughter, clever as her mother, somehow find a way to reach out from beyond the veil and communicate with me through the flames?

At first, I was consumed by grief and guilt in finding solace in this destructive thing that held no regard for innocent human life. But the more I tried to resist, the stronger the pull became. It was as if my daughter was urging me to embrace the fire, to find meaning in the flames.

I may have been mad, but I was no fool. I kept my newfound obsession a secret, because I was all too aware of what others would think, others whose children were still among the living. So, in secret, I continued to strike matches, watching the flames dance and listening to the crackling sounds. The visions of my daughter brought both comfort and torment, a bittersweet reminder of the love we had shared and the pain of her absence.

One day, as I stood by the fireplace lost in thought, I was startled by a knock on the door. It was a detective, investigating a recent string of arson cases in the area. He had received a tip about my matches and wanted to know if I had any information.

I denied any involvement, explaining that I used the matches for comfort, to remember my daughter. The detective looked at me with a mix of sympathy and suspicion. He couldn’t understand why I would find solace in something that had caused so much destruction.

As he left, I felt a surge of anger. How dare he question my motives? He couldn’t possibly understand the pain I carried, the emptiness that gnawed at my soul. I struck a match in defiance, watching the flames grow taller, my daughter’s face appearing in the midst of the fire.

But this time, the vision was different. My daughter’s face was not smiling, but twisted in anguish. The flame wasn’t large enough; she was suffocating in the confined space. She called out to me, begging for my help, pleading with me to atone for my sin of not living up to my parental responsibilities of protecting her at all costs.

She needed to be set free, but in order to cross over, to come back home where she belonged, she required a fire as large as the one that ferried her into that fiery afterlife. And I would start that fire. I knew the perfect place to use as kindling.