Fires.

The water pours down in the most torrential manner, but I all remember is the fire.

It starts slow.  Tingeing everything around it with foreign colors, outlines of red here, auras of yellow there.  But it grows, at a pace that seems methodical, taking over at a quicker rate than I expect.  My world is ablaze.  The deep, warm, brick colors, the brights that can't decide between yellow and green, and the  flaming oranges sweep over my corner.  The fire is lovely, beautiful, and magnificent.  I watch as the flames slowly engulf the land, turning the last of the greens to yellow to orange to red to.... brown.... black.  The fire grows steadily, then retreats in a manner that jolts you.  I look around and suddenly notice it's gone.  The bold hues have left and all my eyes take in now is brown and dreary, an alien, smoky landscape.  I've a dull pang in my chest and a bittersweet tone in the back of my head as I breathe in the lack of color.  But resignation comes easier now, and I don't cringe like I used to.  I stand with the composure of someone who's been here before and wait.

Something has been building up through the fire, something I seem to overlook every time the flames tear through this place.  The ash.  It's hesitant at first, as if it has a semblance of respect for the fire. Then it pours down, building until my corner is no longer recognizable as the green place, the red place, or the gray place. The ash, covering the area in a white duvet. Because the ash, like many things, isn't quite what it seems. This spot has a new identity, a fresh, white, chilly restart. I revel in the crisp, daring beauty of it all.

For my hopes and happiness are not dependent on my surroundings and I am slowly learning that it's not about the fire, smoke, ashes, or even the restart. This is beautiful. This is my place. This is life.