Kindling

We congregated in the backyard. Our host coaxed the fire to life as we fluttered open our camp chairs. Hands dug into coolers and cracked open beers and seltzers. Blondie bars were laid out on a folding table. Conversation rounded the usual topics, belying the difference of the evening.

It was early spring. The light chill deepened as the sun set, and we scooted our chairs closer and closer to the interweaving flames. The tighter circle caused our breath to intermingle.

We had gathered many times around this fire over the past year. The same chairs, the same drinks. But carefully spaced out and, here and there, a mask dangled from an ear or rested on a knee.

Tonight we were finally able to shrug off those concerns.

I had to leave earlier than I liked. My imminent departure regrettably seemed to break up the evening. As we folded up our chairs and gathered our empties, our host burst out, “Can we hug?”

One of our friends answered her by initiating the embrace. Our host began to sob. Then they were both crying. She worked her way around the entire circle, apologizing needlessly for the tears. When she got to me, we hugged firmly, her sobs prompting me to well up.

I am not one for hugs, but even I could feel the relief in this physical contact after the yearlong drought — the first drop of hope that these parched months were coming to an end.