Pyromanaical Catharsis.

We live way out in the country. We are used to 2 big barrels for trash, two for recycling plus four green waste bins. We now get one that's smaller than any of the barrels we got in the city, and it costs more. We consider ourselves lucky that we are even in the service area at all.

The kids had me gather dozens of cardboard boxes for an ill-conceived then abandoned Halloween project. Now rain-warped with roles of masking tape peeling off, they had to go.

The previous tenant used to raise fighting cocks, so some chicken wire enclosures were available, and I have a lighter and well a vast understanding of all things involving conflagrations. (Misspent youth.)

I gathered them together, examined the wind direction, velocity and dry fields due east, and decided this was probably a bad idea. Most of my fires, historically have been bad ideas so this deterred me not at all. I judiciously got a hose stretched in range and had the water flowing to insure the shared well pump is actually on.

I could NOT get it to light with the wind. As a purist, I have always eschewed petroleum distillate-based accelerants in my arson activities, except for purely their entertainment value. I sent The Boy (9 ~ yeah I know I'm a horrible parent) into the house for paper.

He came out with a thick sheave. He said,"Mom said you'd enjoy burning these."

I grabbed the stack and as I glanced at the top I realized it was the divorce packet she had recently printed, and painstakingly hand printed in her carefully chosen responses.

My heart sunk a little at the remembrance of her in a moment of finally released, suppressed anger hauling them out of a drawer. I recognized of course the welcome symbolism of burning them however.

I read through them noting with approval her obvious desire to be fair, but still. Hard to imagine how exactly we got from A to X and back to say, B or C. Sobering.

They burned bright. I hope we do too.