A Recipe For Regret...?

At eleven, you find this little spark in your backyard. It’s warm and bright, so you wrap it in a soft cloth and tuck it inside your school bag. "I'll revisit this when I'm fifteen and the spark's bigger," you tell yourself.

But at fifteen, you realize the spark doesn't just grow on its own, it needs your air. And between homework and the pressure to fit in, you don't have the breath to spare. So you move the spark to a shoebox under your bed, revisiting it only once or twice when the house is quiet.

At eighteen, you’re packing for uni. The box feels heavier now, so you sprinkle a layer of "being realistic" over the top so nobody sees it glowing.

By twenty-five, you’ve got a job and a cubicle. You take the spark and shove it into the back of a kitchen drawer, right behind spare batteries and take-out menus.

At thirty-five, life is loud. You have a wife, two kids, and a mortgage that demands every bit of your attention. You go to that kitchen drawer, turn the key, and lock it. You tell yourself you’re doing it for them, that a grown man doesn't have time for glowing things.

Then, one day when you’re fifty-two and sitting on the sofa, a face pops up on the TV. It’s a junior from your primary school. He’s holding a spark exactly like yours, but he’s let his grow into a bonfire. He’s doing the thing. He’s doing your thing. And you realize, watching him, that your spark would have burned even brighter.

You feel a bit sick, wondering where the recipe went wrong. But then, you remember the drawer. With quick steps, you walk to the kitchen and turn the key. There, amidst dust and debris, the spark isn't dead. It’s just been waiting for you to get brave.

So you dust it off, clearing away the "not yets" that almost choked it out. You’re fifty-two now, and the spark is just as hot as it was when you were eleven. Turns out some fires never go out.

Time to see how bright you can make yours.