Five Metres From the Back Door

There is an entire alternate universe that exists approximately five metres from our back door.

It does not run on schedules, Wi-Fi, or polite indoor voices.

It runs on fire.

My favourite thing about Easter. As the weather cools, this little universe awakes. Every evening, as the light drops and the air chills just enough to justify a jumper (or at least a cape made out of a blanket), Nathaniel assumes his post as King of The Fire. This is a self-appointed role, funded entirely by pocket money and one extremely serious purchase: an axe.

Not a toy axe. Not a “safe and educational” axe. A real, slightly-too-big-for-him axe that he handles with the quiet intensity of a man who believes our chances of surviving the winter depends on him personally.

He disappears into the yard, selects his timber like a seasoned lumberjack, and gets to work. There’s something deeply impressive about his dedication to the labour of it. Chop. Pause. Inspect. Chop again. Occasionally a log wins. He regroups. The axe remains loyal.

Meanwhile, Westley has no interest in forestry. Westley is here for the cuisine.

He hovers near the fire pit like a tiny, enthusiastic chef who has discovered that fire equals food and is not particularly concerned with the finer details. Marshmallows are his true calling. Not gently toasted, golden-brown marshmallows. No. Westley believes in commitment. His marshmallows experience a brief, glorious life before being engulfed in flames, emerging as molten sugar comets that defy physics and have zero respect for the likely-flammable back fence.

And then there are the sausages.

Each boy has a stick. Each stick holds dinner. There is something deeply ancient about it, like we’ve accidentally time-travelled back to a simpler era where meals were earned through fire and dishes were non existent.

Nathaniel cooks with focus. Westley cooks with vibes.

Westley, of course, shares. He's been told not to (repeatedly), but we've come to accept it's just how he operates. Two thirds of his sausage inevitably ends up redistributed to Jackson, who has appointed himself Fire Guardian, Ember Hunter, and Garbage Disposal.

Jackson does not understand fire in the way humans do. To him, the drifting embers are clearly fireflies that have made some questionable life choices. He chases them with great enthusiasm and absolutely no fear, convinced he is participating in some kind of glowing, airborne treasure hunt.

The embers sting his mouth and instead of backing off, he takes it as a declaration of war.

I have accepted the chaos. I sit back with a glass in hand, watching it unfold like a slightly unhinged nature documentary.

Here we see the young woodcutter in his natural habitat…

The smaller one prepares offerings to the fire gods…

The large black creature attempts to consume both sparks and sausages…

And, once you stop trying to bring order to it, it all just works.

No one is asking for screens. No one is bored. No one is anywhere else.

It’s just us, the fire, the smell of smoke in our hair, and this alternate, beautiful little world we’ve built out of sticks, flames, and unevenly cooked sausages.

Five metres from the back door.

Miles from everything else.