There is an overgrown bush outside the front door, proudly leaning against our house as if blazing; its pink and red hues are brilliant in the light. The leaves have spilled everywhere along the walkway and the lawn; our feet tread over them in awe, and crush them carefully in our longing. Each day as the children and I head out on our daily walk we pass by the bush and the door, and I find myself lingering before it. I recall my Sunday school lessons long go, remembering when God spoke to man from a bush of fire. I stand, staring at the bush and secretly call for flames, for a clear voice to call out. But there is no response, the leaves only hang on in silence. I turn my back and start to walk away, but my children rush past and run straight into the bush, climbing and shaking branch and limb, leaf and twig. I peek my head among the branches and pause, certain that underneath the tossing of leaves and laughter there is a faint murmur, a flicker. I make my way near them, near the leaves of red and pink. My daughter sits me down among the whispers, and holds out her hands. There is nothing in them, but she sees a cup, and offers it to me. I drink from it. I am certain I taste milk and honey, burning its way down into my belly. I pass the cup back, and there we spend the afternoon, hidden among the scattered embers.