She pulled back the curtain and stepped in front of the mirror. The shower had stopped, but the water was still slowly dripping in the background. With the curtain pulled back, the beam of the full moon filled the room. The moon was bright enough that she could make out the outline of her figure in the mirror.

She takes a look in the mirror, unimpressed by what she sees. Her breasts are beginning to droop ever so slightly. It was the first sign she had noticed of the aging process. This was a stark contast to the baby face she continually maintained. She sees this in the mirror, and lets out an uncontented sigh.

As the day begins to unraverl in her mind, she finds her thoughts wandering. Is this really what adulthood is meant to be? The world was so full of hope and promise as a child. It seemed like anything and everything was possible all those years ago. She wanted so desparately to return to that world.

Adulthood was supposed to be like her childhood, unrestrained by responsibility. Yet the weight of adulthood continued to wear her down. Her eyes now only show a soul tormented by quiet desperation. She didn’t even know where the desperation came from. All she knew was that she just felt trapped.

With each passing year, the walls of the apartment would shrink. Her job no longer fulfilled her. She was finally making enough money to live, but nothing more. She longed to travel but could never find the time. She knew she wanted more from life. She may never get whatever it was she craved. The thought weighed on her so heavily that her soulders collapsed.

As she crossed the threshold of the bathroom and laid down in bed, her thoughts again turned to the past. She remembered how long it took her to get stability. The days of uncertainty were finally behind her. She had worked hard to build this life for herself. That in and of itself should’ve been enough to make her satisified.

Her eyes slowly close while she waits for sleep to wash over her. She begins to wonder if maybe she was wrong about what ‘growing up’ really is all this time. Maybe growing up isn’t about reaching all the milestones you wanted as a kid. Maybe growing up is about the journey. Maybe the freedom you have as a child is meant to stay in the past. Maybe adulthood is about the lessons you learn on the way to growing up. After all, how do you even know when you’re a grown-up? Or just maybe, it’s about living the best life that you can. She may not feel fulfilled quite yet, but she knew she was living life to the best of her ability. At least for tonight, that thought was enough to let her succumb to the sleep.

Do you know what's worse than feeling all of the things?

Feeling none of the things.

I've spent the last 6 weeks staring at a box of brand new razor blades.

Still wrapped up neat in their paper.

I've been wondering

Should I let all the feelings out?

Can I?

Just take control, unwrap it,

Hold it gently, firmly in my fingertips.

Cut them out and sop them up.

Throw them away.

But.

It's never that easy.

My fingers trail over old scars,

Thin and washboard ridged.

I keep staring at that box,

and sobbing.

[I posted this in early January. Three months later, live performances closed for the foreseeable future.]

Applause for the band merged to clapping in time while they continued to play: accordion, fiddle, flute, guitar, bodhrán. To my eye, not a one of the 3,900 moved, though the actors’ final bow had long passed. We all needed it; we needed to hear more, clap more, pull together more.

Come From Away shows the part of the September 11 story that took place in Canada. While the nation fearfully awaited updates, and a friend and I wandered my closed upstate campus dazed, 38 planes carrying 6,700 people redirected to Gander, Newfoundland, doubling the population of a town that unhesitatingly provided all the support and comfort it could. Scars from that day remain fresh. All who were alive and aware lost something on 9/11; many, obviously, lost much. Watching that musical, we relived the moment when we heard and the aftermath, connecting others’ stories with our own experiences. Quiet tears in the dark. Catharsis.

“Catharsis” is my favorite word because it’s a beautiful concept, goal, and experience: “the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.” Aristotle believed it the purpose of tragedy. Having sought catharsis in many a theater, I believe the Greek dude nailed it, though catharsis is not solely the domain of tragedy, or even solely of theatre.

My wife and I greatly value live performance. We devote a not-inconsiderable portion of our disposable income toward it. We don’t do beach vacations, and we beat on cell phones and cars till they are antiquated scrap, but we see some damn fine shows. My reasons are not just aesthetic or diversionary; I chase catharsis. And I want it live.

Come From Away led me to reflect on my live performance experiences– theatrical, musical, and otherwise. In a streaming world with infinite content available at a click, why is live performance so much more satisfying, so much more likely to yield what I need?

Part of the power comes from the intense choreography to yield a single moment in the moment – there are no retakes. This is doubly true of fire. Metallica fans love the anti-war epic “One,” and I am no exception. The intro and early verses are acoustic; the choruses foreshadow impending ferocity, and when chorus fades to bridge and unaccompanied bass drum rolls vibrate in your chest, you know it’s coming. “Roar” fits the emotional impact of the guitar strikes, but it’s the wrong word because a roar is guttural and muddy. As with all Metallica’s truly great songs, those notes in the “One” bridge explode with absolute precision, and on the World Magnetic tour, absolutely precise pillars of flame punctuated them. I felt the heat twenty rows back. Each pillar burst at the exact instant the guitar began, vanished when it ceased, then burst forth in a different hue for the next guitar phrase with the same meticulous wrath, over and over while the amplifiers and crowd shook the arena. Wildness, power and anger perfectly tamed, controlled and timed for release by the crew to mirror the art of the band I had followed since adolescence uprooted me. Together, they had harnessed and released it all, and so could I.

Even when a headliner stands alone onstage, a score of people must simultaneously channel their efforts to fashion that moment. There’s a scene in The Dresser when the aging, declining actor cries out Lear onstage (blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!) but we watch the behind-the-scenes action: a stagehand turning a crank to produce thunder for the storm. But this is London, 1940—blaring air raid sirens overwhelm everything except the bombs that shake the theatre. All the while, the pitiful backstage god makes his tiny thunder because the show must go on and that is his part. It’s a transcendent scene that both lionizes and trivializes the stagehand, a dramatization of the faithful unseen. Applauding at performance’s end, we clap for those forgotten ones, too, which lends a poignancy to live performances. We dream of being stars; we are the stagehands and the roadies, toiling even as the performers take their bows. Their efforts create the grandeur of the enterprise.

Needless to say, we also clap for the excellence that the performers ever-so-briefly share with us. Ingrid Fliter gave the greatest piano performance I’ve ever heard, Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2 with the Rochester Philharmonic. Her fingers trickled over the keys with impossible grace. I like classical music, studied it a little. The truth remains that I will never feel Chopin the way Ingrid Fliter felt it as she swayed behind that Steinway. But as the air-soluble notes tinctured my breath, I caught a whiff of her Chopin, and it was beautiful. It wasn’t the piece itself, which I’d heard via recording dozens of times. Just like I’d heard the crazy guitar sounds in Rage Against the Machine songs before I watched Tom Morello play, or like I’d listened to the 50s standard “Up on the Roof” many times before hearing Sutton Foster sing it. I didn’t know it could sound like that—I didn’t know it could be that. Many could reach proficiency with pianos or guitars or vocals; few do, and an infinitesimal fraction of those achieve brilliance. When we attend their performances, we witness artists scraping against the human limits of invention and beauty.

So we clap. We clap largely to acknowledge the artist, but we also clap so that we can confirm what we just witnessed. It’s the audiovisual equivalent of answering the question, “Did you see that?” We did, we saw it together, we applaud it together. Standing ovations are cool, but it seems to me that at the professional level they are also common. The rare thing, the special thing, is the spontaneous standing ovation, the ovation when you all spring to your feet immediately because none of you can bear to wait.

My freshman year of college, my honors program offered a trip to attend a Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra performance for $15. Alfred University was perfect for me and I love it, but it’s in a village with one stoplight, and damn did I need that trip. I knew relatively little about classical music at the time, but, you know, Beethoven’s cool. A friend pointed out that number nine was the one Kubrick used in A Clockwork Orange, so we made repeated jokes about “listening to a bit of the old Ludwig van.” And when I flipped through my program, I realized that it was the “Ode to Joy” symphony. I had never heard its original context, but I knew the tune from church.

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony begins solemnly, pensively. Bright spots appear in the first movement, but they never last, and each development section seems to further fragment the themes. With around a minute to go, the strings start to churn, their crescendo choking the light. Following that morose conclusion, bracing violin slashes and timpani open the second movement. The music rushes along, troubled, then gradually gives way to a more playful section, but the darkness returns more powerfully than ever. The violins shriek; the timpani pounds. The struggle persists throughout the movement. The third movement offers us tranquility that builds into grandeur, and then…

It’s important to note that throughout the whole symphony, which has now gone on for 40 minutes, there have been something like a hundred people sitting in still silence at the rear of the stage, doing nothing. I figured out they were a chorus, and when I caught my breath between movements, I would wonder when they were going to do something. There were also four solo vocalists who were a big enough deal to be individually announced in the program, but who had also not stirred from their chairs.

All the singers sit unmoving even when the fourth movement begins with a quick recap of what came before, but with all the dark stuff weakened and subsumed within the deepest of the strings. At last, we hear the famous “Ode to Joy” theme from the cellos and double bases. It’s soft. The violins grab the baton, and when the winds subsequently take it, it’s arrived—almost. Amid a bright flurry from the strings, the four vocalists and the chorus stand on cue. One last time, the darkness returns, rushed and fearful, but the strings close off the pain. Tentatively, the horns and violins try out the “Ode to Joy” theme, halfway: four quiet notes rising, no resolution. Incomplete, twice. The third repetition lightly swells through that fourth note and then, in an instant, full symphony and full choir combine to set everything free.

I don’t know quite how to describe it, except to say that it’s joy. Not the cheap, bullshit happiness of that obnoxious Pharrell song, but actual, real, light-from-the-darkness joy celebrating our continuing existence. We—musicians, vocalists, audience, conductor—have been on this odyssey together for more than an hour. When we leap up immediately after the finale, we’re not merely applauding the performers or even Beethoven. We’re applauding and affirming life itself, en masse. For those minutes, nothing matters beyond the simplest of facts: we live.

Live performances yield catharsis because they require, condensed within a very short time, dedicated effort from unsung heroes, brilliant artists, and audiences themselves. Recordings might represent that distilled moment, but they cannot ever reproduce that unified, spontaneous rush. Everything given to us that we might witness together, clap together, feel together.

In 2017, researchers at University College London found that as audiences watch live theatrical performances, their heartbeats synchronize.

Sounds about right to me.

He was burying his second body that day when his phone vibrated.

“Ruben, we found her, the one who saw you with Jake. My client has locked her in your room,” said the same old voice and the line went dead.

Ruben smiled to himself and dusted off his ragged pants. He roused from his knees and started heading back home. Blimey, it's not something you would call a home. It was just an old building in the hilltop. Opening the door, he found a twelve your old girl with short blonde hair sitting with her hands and mouth tied up. Yes, he knew looking at her will stop him from killing, so without hesitating he took his gun and closed his eyes. But before he could shoot, he heard something.  

“God, please save him, please...” she was praying. Why should she do that? Nobody has done this to him before. Putting down his gun, he cut the ropes that held her hands.

“Run,” he said and turned back but she came hugging him. 

“Daddy!” she cried and held him tight. She then showed him the locket she was wearing in her neck. It had the picture of him with Eva. Surprised, he looked at her. She had her mother’s eyes. Those beautiful black eyes.

“Emi, my darling! You - you are still alive!” he cried and kissed her. 

“I missed you too, daddy,” she smiled and wiped away his tears. Holding hands together they walked through the busy streets. He was a happy man again. After ten long years, he was seeing his daughter and couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

He was thinking about leaving his job and starting a new life, when suddenly, a bullet hit him. He fell to the ground holding Emi’s hands and a group of twenty policemen circled him. 

“Daisy, my doll, here is your ice-cream!” said a heavy cop with sunglasses, patting the little girl’s head as she squeaked with joy.

“Emi?” asked Ruben as he started to cough up blood. No, it was not Emi, but Daisy. A rat to kill a rogue. She started having her ice-cream and ran away. 

“Ruben, my old mate!” said the cop, removing his glasses. There was a nasty scar in his left eye. In fact, there was no left eye. It was just a deep black hole.

“Tylor!” he said, gritting his teeth. His eyes were burning like lead. 

“Ah, you remember me! Thought I was dead?” he asked, holding his chin.

“You killed Eva! You killed my wife!” he screamed, spitting on the heavy man's face.

“Did I?” he asked and shot him on the left eye.

***

His mobile buzzed while driving the car.

“Tylor?” asked a voice.

“Dr. Joe? Yeah, it’s me. What’s the matter?” he asked, stopping the car.

“Well, I have something to tell you... you have killed the wrong person,” his voice trembled.

“What? Dr. Joe, are you serious?” Tylor gasped.

“Yeah, the person you killed... its - its not Ruben,” he stammered.

“Then who is he?” he shouted.

“It’s a she. It’s Eva.”

I write to feel. All of the feels missing in my life. Everyone needs a little pick me up, right? what it’s like? Waking up in the morning just to lay back down? To lool in the mirror and spend hours nitpicking every flaw, only to realize that it doesn’t matter. Because you’ll never be pretty. So, cover-up yourself. The marks on your neck, your bowed legs, your arms, and thighs. You’re so embarrassed by yourself, that you won’t give anyone else the chance to even say hello. It’s so hot outside, boiling, and yet you dress in your baggy jeans. The oversized hoodie, which you should know you, you got the biggest male size cause that’s all they’ll see anyway. They’ll never see that girl with ponytails. Never the girl with dresses and a cute laugh. Not the one people faun over. No. They only see “it”. The being with the 4x hoodie. The one who games with boys, but can’t enter the bathroom without being mistaken for a pervert. That poor unfortunate soul who everyone thinks is a robber or criminal because they frown and dress in dark clothing. That girl ran out of the food place because the waiter called her a ‘sir’ in front of everyone else. I’m...sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Whenever I talk about my problems, it gets worse. I’m the type of girl who tries to starve herself. Who, out of fear of bothering others, lets herself be a doormat and puts others before herself. Thee type of girl that doesn’t share her ideas, because she wants to give everyone else a chance. The type of girl that cries is anyone fights, or if she’s being yelled at, or if she senses that someone is upset. The one you’ll blame herself for everything. That same one who was sent to a psych ward for seeing demons out to get her family. And even though her suffering, she had to sit and watch people try to sacrifice for her....all because she couldn’t keep it bottled up enough until they walked away. Can you imagine the guilt? The shame?! The pressure of people trying to fix you, when you know you can’t be. Useless. The word of the day. Then the week. And later the year. Recently the decade. Feeling so p useless, so hopeless, that all she could do was sleep it off. Hibernate in her room till she was hungry. And when she had any openings, she would grab food, take it to her room, and hibernate some more. She got so tired of giving, and giving, and feeling so pointless that she became depressed. Tried to take her own life. But do you know why I’m still here? Because I couldn’t even take my life right.Heh. Do you see it? Utterly useless. I was honestly tied of the pain. The resentment. But I was too much of a coward to do it. Can you believe that! I realize that I’m being selfish. I get it. There are people out in the world staving, without education, in debt, and/or running from an abuser or going through mental health and other tough times. But saying that doesn’t make it anyless painful for me to get through my problems. Sorry for unloading on you. I really needed to vent.

I don’t have

a sob story

About how chains of

hate held me down

but I sometimes wish I did

so I could

explain away

this hurt

inside of

my fragile brain.

Somehow

I never stop hurting

I never stop running

Yet I don’t run from pain

I run from happiness.

I don’t want to be okay

Because what will I do

if one day I wake up

and nothing’s wrong?

What will I do when I wake up in perfection

and realize that I did nothing to deserve it?

I don't know. I want to know.

but I don't think I ever will.

I think my curse is that

I will never be okay

because I'll never allow my brain

to accept that good things

happen to me.

A dangerous ledge to be on.

A slippery slip of agony

and it only gets worse.

What will I do

when everything is perfect?

i don't know.

Why don't I just accept

what I have?

I guess it's my curse.

I don't have any agony to share.

all I have is perfection.

and I wish that something would go wrong

so I don't sound awful

when I complain about

my broken heart.

The text came through today. The caseworker's words jumped off my phone's screen and went jabbing deep into my core.

"The relatives have completed paperwork and are starting the process. It will be a couple months at least until we know anything for sure but I wanted to let you know."

Furiously I willed back the tears as I looked up from phone into the sea of High School faces waiting for me to continue my English lesson. Somehow I stumbled through, grateful for the first time, of the mask that covered my face so they wouldn't see me biting my lips to hold back the sobs.

Gracie, my sweet, sweet Gracie's future lies in jeopardy.

I'll never forget the day over eight months ago when my son and I walked nervously, eagerly, into the maternity wing of the hospital. The call had come of a 2 day baby girl desperately in need of a loving foster home. Born addicted to meth, with no prenatal care and a history of alcohol and smoking thrown into the mix, her future and health remained unclear but I knew immediately that my only answer was going to be a resounding, "Yes!"

As the nurse ushered us into the room with all the tiny cribs and swaddled newborns, we could hear one infant screaming lustily and angrily. My son looked at me worriedly and I smiled back. No matter what we were about to face, this child would find a safe, nurturing home, I reminded myself. "Here, I've put her into a private room for you around this corner," the nurse said and led us past the screaming infant. Part of me, I'll admit, felt relief.

And then, there she was. A tiny, baby girl wearing a stained onesie and threadbare socks was sleeping so peacefully. She opened her eyes to reveal a lovely shade of blue underneath dark swirls of hair. She was absolutely gorgeous and I fell instantly in love. A feeling of wanting to protect and keep this little one safe from all harm rushed over me. And, I wasn't alone in that feeling as my son, age 12, said breathlessly, "Mom, when we get her home, can you show me how to give her a bottle?"

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of many nights of every four hour feedings and baby snuggles. She was by far the most content baby I have ever cared for even with needing five different formulas before they discovered she was lactose intolerant. And then the pandemic struck, and my school went completely virtual, and suddenly I was stay at home Mama and full-time virtual teacher!

Gracie, as we called her, participated in endless Zoom calls with students and recorded video lessons. She'd drink her bottle during long staff meetings and smile happily at the screen while I tutored Seniors one on one. Once we figured out her formula needs, she quickly made up for lost time and soon reached the 90th percentile on the doctor's chart for height and weight. "Perfectly balanced!" said her pediatrician.

She became the darling of the family, with my sons taking turns giving her a bottle or serenading her with rock and roll guitar concerts to make her giggle and laugh. My sassy, sunshine and rainbows adopted daughter who was five became her biggest fan. Gracie laughed at everything she did so she'd spend hours twirling and dancing to entertain her.

During this blissful time, we were in our own little bubble. Her biological mom had left the state and didn't even bother to use her cell phone for zoom visits. Her biological father was entirely unknown. Even caseworker monthly visits were conducted via zoom so in a way it felt like she really was mine, even tho I tried so hard to remind myself that she wasn't... not fully... not yet.

After more months of happiness, the word adoption started coming out more and more in talks with her caseworker. Parental rights' by all acounts, would most likely be terminated soon on grounds of abandonment. The agency sounded excited when they knew I was open, eager, and willing to adopt this precious baby girl and add her to my forever family.

And then, the bottom dropped out. A long distant relative had come forward. Second cousin of the grandfather expressed interest. Never mind that they hadn't been involved in her entire life. Never mind that Gracie has only known one loving home. Never mind that the trauma of separating her from not just the woman she calls, "Mama", but every other family member she has ever known, would most likely cause life-long damage. They must be sent paperwork and given consideration because they are biologically linked (however distant that link might be)...

And so I sit here tonight, in the quiet and let the feelings come. The children are all asleep, Gracie tucked into her crib, dreaming peacefully unknowing all the currents that swirl around her future.

All alone here in the silence and the quiet, I know. And I feel.

Tomorrow I will rise again. I will change her and feed her and coo and make her laugh. I will snuggle her and rock her as she gets sleepy and laugh at her "Mmm" sounds while eating a new flavor of baby food. I will clap and praise her as she pushes and tries so hard to start that baby crawl. I will sing and dance with her around the kitchen. I will read her a story and help her pet kitty cat. I will practice sounds with her and chatter away so she learns new words. I will love, praise, care, and provide for her. I will be her Mama, every moment of every day, that God gives me and the pain that comes and goes in waves will make each moment that much more precious.

For I am now, and will always be, her foster Mama.

I remember the good times, the times when we were so happy together. We had sleepovers and fun dinners and hilarious game nights; you introduced me to Jane Austen books and BBC miniseries, now among my greatest loves, and we would talk all hours of the night about movies, Michael Landon, MBTI personality types, family ancestry, jewelry, fashion, and guys. You were so intelligent and sophisticated, I used to hang on your every word. You were my role model in college. I don’t know if I’d have gotten through those first few months without you.

I looked up to you so much. I considered you one of my best friends.

Then, that happened. I was shocked. I was so confused. Heck, I’m still confused. But especially then. Granted, I was young and naive, but this would have puzzled even the most sage and experienced of persons. From the very beginning, all the way to the ugly, cold aftermath, I was confused. Even after I realized and admitted my own contributing faults in the situation and tried my best to apologize, explain, make reparations, I still didn’t understand why it had to happen. Why we had to end.

Were you ever truly my friend?

Did you ever consider me a true friend, in the same way I saw you?

Why couldn’t we find some way to smooth our hurts and salvage the most precious bits of our relationship? We had a fighting chance. It should’ve been possible, but I guess it wasn’t enough of a priority to you. Or maybe I wasn’t enough of a priority. Were you relieved to leave me behind, cut me loose like a burdensome weight? Were we only fair-weather friends, keep me close as long as it suited you and let me go as soon as it became inconvenient?

Maybe I could’ve done more...I know I could’ve--should’ve done more to fix things. I’m so deeply sorry.

Do you know, every few months or so, I literally dream about us reconciling and becoming friends again? Even now, after years and years. In fact, I had one a few weeks ago. I dream that we’ve met again in some rosy, delicate, parallel world, our differences dissolved into nothingness, our connection forged strong once again. It’s never the same dream exactly, but it’s always a happy one.

I was heartbroken when you left. That feeling only grew as time went on. I felt...betrayed, in a way. Like a clean shirt that’s been lovingly worn for years, then, without warning, dropped into the gutter to be run over mercilessly by gritty tires. It still hurts to think of the friendship lost between us. The others, too, but you most of all. I wasn’t as close with them, but you and I...I don’t know. I thought what we had would be strong enough to last--no, it never even occurred to me that our friendship would ever crack and shatter. I thought we would be soul sisters forever.

Maybe you never saw me that way, but I did. I valued our friendship so much. Even now, so many years later, I miss you, your family, what we used to have together. What could have been.

The hurt has mostly faded into a nostalgic sadness, but I still miss you.

If I ever saw you again in person, I wouldn’t beg to be your friend again. Too much time has passed, we’ve both changed too much, I’m certain. Our paths have long-since diverged and grown distant.

I think I’d just have one desperate, mind-boggling question for you:

What happened?

bathe me in midnight ink and drag me down to the depths

pressure crushing my cranial cavity twisting me inside out

oxygen screams within my lungs its hollow cries go unheard

by your shrunken corpse among the fishes coral and bone

ecosystems inside your ribcage a world you’ll never know

filling the void in your chest where your heart once was

and i’m tugging on the tether one two three four five

but there’s no one bringing me up so i lay here

forgotten amongst the waves and shells and rubble

warped wreckage metal scraps propellers and a single sunken shoe

bathe me in midnight ink and drag me down to the depths

crown me in a ring of anemone

and hereafter i will lie with nothing but

a curious cuttlefish to stir my settled bones

Ashes. Rubble. Twigs where mighty redwoods stood only weeks before.

I stand in the middle of a patch of charcoal that was once my room and stare at our melted mailbox, the painted images of flowers and our family name distorted by the sheer heat that consumed it. Over by the spot where my bed used to be—or at least where I estimate it used to be—there's a crumpled, rusted heap of steel that I think must have been one of my shelves. I kept a rock collection there, all sorts of cool little samples—gems, fossils, interesting little bits with folded striations. My favorite one was a tiger's eye sample that my science teacher in high school gave me. It would be impossible to discern sample from rubble now, of course, and I'm sure my collection will be whisked away to some dump when FEMA finally clears our lot.

I make my way to the living room—recognizable only by the perfectly intact chimney still standing there, seemingly untouched—listening and wincing as my shoes crunch bits and pieces of the roof as I walk. I think how beautiful the floor here used to be, a gorgeous latticework of walnut, cherry, and oak wood. We bought the house pretty cheap for the area, a real fixer-upper, and we didn't have the money for real hardwood, so my dad went to the hardware store and gathered up all the bits they didn't want. You know, those samples? The scraps that people take home to match with chairs and walls and whatever? Yeah, he made those things look like premium flooring. And it was free.

Now it's ash.

There was a piano in the corner by the window; I was the only one in the family that played it. It was given to me by my parents, actually, because they knew I loved playing. It was a baby grand, one of the real ones, a rare commodity in a house stocked full of off-brand and garage sale items. Every Christmas, my parents would set off a yuletide bomb in this room, with every inch covered by garland, lights, wreaths, stockings (for the whole family plus two dogs), and I would spend hours in that corner playing hymn after hymn, sometimes with others singing along, sometimes on my own just waiting for the sun to go down. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and I loved it.

Something catches my eye. I look down and see a charred sheet of music. The edges are singed and browned, but you can still see the title, notes, and everything. Claire de Lune. One of my favorites. Funny, though. This piece of music survived the blaze of over two thousand degrees, and yet the granite kitchen countertop exploded into a million pieces. I pick up the music and hold it close to my chest like a life preserver, the last shred of evidence of all my memories before the fire. All the home videos of my childhood, all of the photos, every trinket, toy, and trophy, all vaporized in twenty minutes.

Beyond the borders of our lot—it's weird calling it a lot now, no longer a house or a home—lies a field of devastation, hardly recognizable for what it once was. I had trouble finding my way here, to my own home, that's how unfamiliar it is. It's like a nuclear weapon has gone off, flattening everything in sight. Five thousand homes, gone, turned to smoke in just a couple hours. It's amazing to me how quick it all was. I was off at college, but my parents were still here. They woke up to the sound of the dog door flapping in the violent wind, stepped outside, and saw their neighbor's house on fire. They had minutes to escape, only enough time to grab the pups and one car each. My dad's car caught fire as they were fleeing, forcing my mom to turn around and rescue him before barely making it to my sister's house in the next town over. I think about the others who weren't so lucky, the ones who didn't wake up in time.

There were more than twenty of them. Their bodies are still out there. Mingled with the debris.

I drop to my knees and cry, my tears mixing with the ash and creating a dark gray paste on the ground. I don't know why I'm crying, really. My parents are safe, insurance will cover the rebuild, most of the things I cared about I took with me to college. And yet, I'm left with an empty feeling. A dark and ominous sense of loss. I stay kneeling for several minutes, my mother watching me mournfully from the car, somehow less affected than I thought she'd be.

Finally, I pick myself up and am about to return when one last thing snags my attention. In the back yard there's a small patch of green, a flamboyant contrast to the murky shades of brown and gray all around. I walk over to it and gently handle a single white flower that has bloomed by the back wall. We had a few different plants back here—bananas, figs, palms—most of which got cooked by the fire, and yet, somehow, despite the destruction all around us, this one plant made it through. The leaves are gone and many of the stems have been blasted away, but this one flower has made it through. For some reason that comforts me, more than anything else so far, more than the words of my family or friends or random strangers sending me their condolences.

I chuckle silently to myself and grin. I suppose if this tiny little plant can go through the very wrath of hell itself and still find a way to bloom prettier than ever, well then, just maybe I could do the same. I give the petals one last gentle tap, then turn and leave my home.

Tubbs fire - 2017

Coffey Park