MARSHMALLOW ETIQUETTE

Meticulous debates surround a summer bonfire to discuss proper marshmallow etiquette.
Doughy white cubes burst into flames then are quickly blackened and extinguished through giggling breath.
The sous-chef practices a different approach; strategically avoid the flames’ direct lick and slowly rotate into a golden-brown treat.
Loyalists to the fire-craft sacrifice proximity to the inferno to perfect gooey ecstasy.
 
Stray embers pirouette towards the sky, mimicking the fireflies’ pulsing greeting to the cicadas in the trees, and the crickets in the grass, and the frogs in the pond.
With baited breath, a dirty glass jar waits to fulfill its destiny of reincarnation from “Knott’s Farm Strawberry Preservative” to illuminated insect death-chamber.
Swirling dresses and swirling clouds of smoke pair with toes tickled by soft blades of grass.
 
A boy capitalizes on an excruciatingly long hour, in increments of a centimeter per minute, to nonchalantly inch towards his crush.
She fidgets with the loose thread protruding from the course tribal blanket they are both sitting on.
Her once-white Keds, now rimmed in a nature green stain, speak to days of bike rides with no handlebars, popsicle overdoses, and first kisses in neighborhood tree-houses.
 
The fire wanes soft as nature’s circadian rhythm slips into pace for the night.
The blanket is folded and hands with sticky fingers throw sticks with sticky ends back into the forest to lay where they were picked.

A dirty glass jar takes on its new purpose.
And the Keds get dirtier.