Angithee 2 ❲Quick❳

The match strikes. One hesitant blue tongue. Then the slow orange eating its way inward, like a secret told too late.

Tonight I understand: the second hearth is not for the living. It is for the almost-gone. For the grandmother whose hands forgot how to knead. For the letter I wrote and never mailed. For the god who became a piece of furniture. angithee 2

The first angithee taught me ash. How a flame, even cradled in clay, even fed with sandal and ghee, still bows to the ceiling’s dark. It taught me patience—the slow suicide of coal, the way a red core lies to the eye while the hand finds nothing but cold. The match strikes

I will not call it hope. Hope is a propane stove—instant, ruthless. This is angithee . This is the second time you choose the slow thing. The broken thing. The thing that still smokes long after you’ve looked away. Tonight I understand: the second hearth is not

(After the fire has died once. The second lighting.)

So why another?