I learned something new about my grandma today. 

During her studies, she gave lectures on art at the stellar museum in the city. She drew and painted and drew and painted until people who saw her work said, 'amazing'. And then she did something unexpected after she graduated: she burned every inch of her studio art until no trace was left. 

I never knew this. I'm left hanging on a thread, to where this story ends in smoke. I imagine her charcoal trees brought to gray ruins while her blended impressions burned, the paint swirls hissed, those crisscrossed lines melted on canvas and paper until her expressions were all, all, all gone. 

My grandma did not pretend to love her art, even though others did. My grandma did not pretend anything. 

A week or so after I heard this story, I built a bonfire surrounded by snow. I know the dance of mesmerizing flames- how the blazing metamorphosis of wood and paper in fire is exquisite. 

So when exquisite things burn, is the fire more beautiful or is it something else? Is it any different? 

I heap snow on the bonfire until all the colorful embers and flames disappear in a hissing song. Gray threads of smoke linger then fade. The evening light is now dim and I am left to wonder. Wishes, they float in empty places. I wish I could have asked her, did you ever regret your choice? Or did the fire cleanse you.