Some people pay someone to listen.
I just lift the lid and let the smoke do the talking.

That grill has heard things no man should.
It has absorbed every rant, every mistake, every half-cooked idea I ever had.
When the coals light, something in my brain does too.
The static fades, the noise drops, and it is just me and the flame.

I do not need advice.
I need silence, heat, and a piece of meat that does not argue back.

The grill never interrupts.
Never sighs.
Never asks how that makes me feel.
It just listens, one pop of charcoal at a time.

When life starts to unravel, I light the pit.
The sound of the chimney starter is better than therapy bells or guided breathing.
Each spark feels like a reset, a second chance, a way to burn the bad days into ash.

I have yelled at that grill.
I have laughed at it too.
One time I cried when a pork shoulder turned out perfect because, for once, something in the world finally did.
The lid creaked like it understood.

Cooking is not just food.
It is a confession.
Every fire tells the truth if you stand close enough.