In a tiny booth with my left hand hovering I strike the metal. A darkening welding helmet automatically provides my eye protection and I call on the flame.

I am the master of fire. But an uncertain master for fire is hard to harness. And just two years of experience have only given me more doubts about my skill. My gender also doesn’t seem to help much in this world of labor and fire and sparks.

The stick glows red hot. I must be quick. The flame, the arc is an artificial light but I disagree. The fire is just as alive as if I had created it from wood and friction. It dances along the metal and I must—for once in my life—be the leader. No sudden turning. No pirouettes. Straight and narrow is my path. Bending metal to my will.

But I am unskilled. Sparks fly in all directions. One flies high over the top of my helmet, far enough to get behind it. It lights the inside of my helmet flashing like a firework remnant near my cheek.

Suddenly another fire spark catches a spot on my sleeve. It burns through.

That’ll be another scar after the blister is long gone. White and stretched-out new skin will replace what once was. But I don’t mind.

My flame now is near the end of the length of the metal path. I bend shiny gray solid metal to shiny gray solid metal. Melted. Welding! Them! Together!

Salt sweat gets in my eye. It burns like fire, but I don’t look away. I wait a few seconds. Breathe in. Breathe out.

And I see beauty made from fire and my own hands. I have brought them together.

© SteelBlue