Nothing to See Here

by Kevin Wilson

I wasn’t destined for greatness; I knew this. But I was figuring out how to steal it from someone stupid enough to relax their grip on it.

I started to care less about the future. I cared more about making the present tolerable. And time passed. And that was my life.

Maybe that’s what children were, a desperate need that opened you up even if you didn’t want it.

A lot of times when I think I’m being self-sufficient, I’m really just learning to live without the things that I need.

I don’t know why, with these demon children bursting into flames right in front of me, their bad haircuts remaining intact was the magic that fully amazed me, but that’s how it works, I think. The big thing is so ridiculous that you absorb only the smaller miracles.

“It is a bit too much,” I said. “But you’ll get used to it.” Bessie looked at me like, Duh. They were children who caught on fire. Their mother had died. They understood how to adjust to weird stuff.

“Come on,” I said. I handed Bessie the monastery book. “Hold this and act normal, okay? Nothing to see here. No one cares. No one cares about us.”

And I knew a secret to caring for someone, had learned it just this moment. You took care of people by not letting them know how badly you wanted your life to be different.

Then, slowly, the fire rolled down to her hands, and there was this jittery flame and she was holding it. She was holding it in her hands, cupped together. It looked like what love must look like, just barely there, so easy to extinguish.

The kids were happy. They had added another to their numbers. They didn’t want to set the world on fire. They just wanted to be less alone in it.