The house was being charred.
The siding that was once my favorite color was being turned into ashes,
and the clothes that hung in a perfect order in my closet were being suffocated.
It was avoidable. Everything is.
Had I unplugged the hairdryer? Should I have plugged in so many wires into the extension cord?
Maybe the fire was inevitable. A gas leak, faulty stove, an inner problem in the wiring.
Maybe it was something I couldn’t control, outside forces acting against me.
Against my structure.
It could’ve been the man who walked the sidewalks at night,
the only sign of him being the bitter smell of his cigarette or the occasional glow of his lighter.
Maybe this night, when he flicked the ashes onto the drying dirt, the dead grass, a spark was ignited.
A slow one, one he couldn’t see, but one that would spread.
I could have kept the grass watered,
took more time to turn on the sprinklers, turn on the hose, possibly tried to plant something new.
It was a combination. Me and him.
No matter what it was, no matter the cause, my house burned.
Slowly, quietly, and unsuspecting.
Here I stand on the grass in only my socks and flannels,
watching my recklessness burn it all down. With no one to help.
The wailing in the distance could not phase me, nor did the cold breeze of the early morning.
I heard my screams in the fire, trapped and being turned into the dark smoke.
My pleas for a redo, my sobs for a second chance, a scream to stop the burns,
all while I stood silent, straight-faced, and cold.
The dew of the morning on the grass absorbed into my socks,
the painful reminder of the opposite forces I was facing.
Fire and water,
hot and cold,
passionate and numb.
Fighting and giving up.
My house burned down that day,
burned and turned into ashes,
while the most I could do was stare at the rubble,
and let out a sigh.
