I thought the spark had died when he left town. I didn’t expect him to return and when he finally did, I glanced but I refused to look. When he came calling, who was I to turn him away. He was different but still the same. He might as well have thrown kerosene on the fire when he brushed my hand. Until that moment I didn’t realize I had packed all his love away in a tiny little box. He knew he couldn’t walk away, I knew I couldn’t say no. Papa gave his blessing and the fire burned once again.