Firewalker

She doesn't know why she's here. There's nothing for her here- there's nothing for her anywhere, anymore, but there is most especially nothing for her here in this small southern town she swore she'd never return to. Her momma's dead, her daddy's dead, and there's not a soul in this town who, if they recognized her, would be glad to see her. Nothing here but memories, and most of them as unwelcome to her as she is to them.

But there was nowhere else to go, and she is so tired of going to new places only to discover she doesn't fit in there, either. Might as well be here, where she is already familiar with all the ways in which she doesn't belong. It's almost a comfort.

It's August, and the mid-day air is shimmering around her as she faces down the white-washed walls of her parents' church. How long has it been since she's been in this church? Or any church, for that matter? How long has it been since she's talked to God? She thinks she can just barely remember what it was like to sit in His house and hear His voice... but then, she also remembers the anticipation of Santa Claus.

She sighs and turns, sits on the shaded steps and stares out at the main street. It's so hot out that no one is about- they're all curled up in their air-conditioned homes, or at the very least sitting on covered porches with tall glasses of sweet, sweet tea. She considers the abandoned road in front of her, listens to the dull clinking of wind-chimes from across the street.

She thinks back to what it was like to have faith, what it was like to believe in something, to know something. She wouldn't mind being that kind of person again. She kicks off her sandals and spreads her toes, examining her neatly manicured nails. Nothing fancy- just clear polish- but there is something soft about them. How can these pale, elegant feet have sprung from the feet of her youth? Those brown little feet that carried her, barefoot, through streams and forests and down endless miles of grass and clay and pavement.

She looks out at the street again, watches the heat dance above its near-molten surface. It reminds her of a bed of coals, and she remembers a program she watched once, about some island culture where the inhabitants walked on fire. It was healing for them- a test of faith and a proof courage. An initiation.

She stands, letting the sandals drop from her fingers. Maybe this is why she's come back- maybe God is whispering to her again- so soft she can't really hear Him, but just loud enough for her to feel Him.

She takes a step onto the burning asphalt- and then another. The heat is the purest thing she's felt in a long time, the pain a kind of blessed ecstasy to her benumbed soul.

Yes, she thinks, I am ready to come home.