To be precise, fire is a chemical reaction between oxygen, heat, and some object of sacrifice. Anger, like fire, is a similar reaction between elements. A weekend trip, 500 miles, and two kicking kids in the backseat. A marriage, a confession, and a suitcase-toting spouse. A living room, asunder, and a puppy cowering in shame.
Some anger can be doused with a short walk or purposeful intake of breath. Other anger persists, like the smoldering core of a tire yard inferno.
A grudge is an object that you hold. It remains of the fire that was. It is a pebble of magma, cooled into jewelry, and worn around the neck. And unlike the smoke from the kitchen a grudge triggers no alarms, nor nostrils.
But between an idle forefinger and thumb, rubbing the pumice rouses the scarcest of heat. It’s a silent souvenir of smoke, and screams, and flame. A memento of the forgotten; a reminder never to forgive.