Burning Down the House

Mother, your house is burning.

I'm almost relieved you aren't here to see this. I know that you sold the house twenty years ago, but it was a house you loved dearly. I think you would have been distraught to see it go. I will post pictures of whatever is left once it's safe in the forest.

So far, they've managed to save my elementary school. How many times did you have to go there because of me? How many times were you called out of work, or late for work, because I had some sort of disciplinary issue, or award, or something else?

I remember you got sick of it and told them they couldn't call you unless it was a physical emergency. And then one time, they called because I complained I was sick, but I only had a 99-point-something-degree fever, and you came from work to get me, because a 99-degree fever for me was 100+ for a normal person.

I still, by the way, hardly ever get above 97.4.

What used to be the General Store is gone, I think. They heard explosions when the gas tanks blew. A picture from an airplane showed how hard this is to fight:

There are a million fires, all unpredictable.

We knew the forest had to burn sometime. I wish it hadn't happened this year. It was like it was waiting for you not to have to see it.

Mother, your house is burning.

For you, did it ever stop burning? Has it always been? Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. No more reminders of what you went through. What we went through.

I'm still sad, though.  I'm sad for the good childhood memories of playing outside almost the whole day.  I'm sad for my sister.  I'm sad for you.

Mother, your house is burning.

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