Beloved,
I used to think you were only the quiet one. The goddess with no statue, no great adventures, no thunder in her hands. The one who stayed home.
I was young then, and I wanted fire that went somewhere. Fire that traveled, fire that conquered, fire with a story worth telling at parties. I did not understand why the Romans would build you a round temple and leave it empty, except for the flame. I did not understand that the flame was the whole point.
It took me a long time to find you, beloved, and when I did, you were standing in my own kitchen. The kettle on the stove before anyone else was awake. Bread rising under a clean towel. The lamp switched on at dusk, the one that tells the household someone is here. The same small rituals, done again tomorrow, and the day after that.
No one thanks the person who keeps the fire going. That is what I used to resent. And then I understood that you never needed thanks, because the keeping was the devotion. A city once believed its safety rested on your steady flame. I think a home rests on it too. I think a life might.
I even love the little donkey in your story, braying at exactly the right moment, crowned with garlands and loaves at your festival. You keep company with humble things. So do I, these days.
So here is my offering, beloved. A piece of bread, a pinch of salt, a candle lit on the table each evening and watched for a few faithful minutes. Nothing grand. Just the small fire I return to, every day, because you taught me how.