Most days, my light burns low.

Not extinguished, not gone, just reduced to a thin orange thread stubbornly surviving beneath the ash. It has been a long time since I had enough fuel to keep the fire bright.

Then, without warning, people appear carrying light of their own.

Some arrive with dimmed embers like mine, their glow worn low and quiet by weather and time. Yet somehow, together, our little sparks collide and become a firestorm.

Others are hearth fires set deep in stone; steady and comforting, the kind of warmth that wraps around you on a chilly night.

Some are backyard fire pits, all crackle and laughter. They gather stragglers close so no one has to warm their hands alone.

Of course, there are the bonfires. The ones who are impossible to ignore. In their presence, you want to sing louder, laugh harder, stay awake until sunrise just to remain inside the reach of their light.

And finally, there are the living flamethrowers. Beautiful disasters determined to set the world on fire. A more sensible person would step back from them. The rest of us stand transfixed, grinning as the sparks catch on our sleeves.

Finding any one of these people feels rare.

Finding them all in the same place feels like magic.

So here we are, a ragtag bunch on an endless bonfire night, lighting the dark with sparklers, embers, and reckless open flames.

And somehow, by the time I am ready to leave, I leave glowing.