Memories and a Flame

I only remember his hands well—and what they could do. The rest of him is blurred in my memory. I know he had brown skin and short dark hair, but there is no face. I was a small guy, five years old, and he was a high school student. I was assigned and sat by him, during chapel, first thing in the morning, Monday through Friday, at Pear Park Baptist School.
The school used the main sanctuary of the church for its chapel service. They had the little kids dividing all the older kids to keep the teenagers from talking and disrupting chapel. He and I were in the rear, near the end of a long wooden pew alone.
For weeks, when the school year started, he never once acknowledged my existence. Then, one day he gathered my attention and showed me his hands formed together. His focus was in the cave he had created with his hands. With his eyes, he showed me the focus point deep in the cave of his hands. And there, without illusion, was a single flame. To a child of five, it was exciting, but not overwhelming. And I remember him being a very calming soul.
From then on, he and I sat together in the back. We sang when we were asked, and we listen when we had to, but every chance he had, he showed me the flame in his hands. I don’t know what it was. And he never claimed to be a magician. I don’t know much. But I felt confided in, in an eerie way.

Often when I look back, it seems there’s nothing interesting about that time or that place, but then I think of his dark smooth hands and the flame, one of the clearest memories I see.