(about 1992)
The gray heater hummed under the table
where I sat.
The tall barstools, where I ate breakfast,
the glossy window, where I looked at the mountains.
The yellow dishwasher held its own secrets,
cycles of the past.
Washing dirt and grit off dishes;
never washing away memories,
rather, making them.
Starting on the top bunk
tucked in by gentle hands.
Alarm on a loving face,
smoke filling the hallway, the room.
A rush to get out, everyone.
We stood by the door.
Dad looked everywhere
but our big brown house
was not being consumed by flames,
only smoke.
The fire department had to come--
to be safe.
The worries of the unknown
forced us next door
to look out their window
as to not miss
the excitement of
the red fire truck.
Curious friends dared to approach it,
our big circle filling with familiar faces.
This was real.
Gossipy women busied over tomorrow's headlines,
undiscovered as of yet.
Help was automatically offered by kind women
and their concerned husbands.
But our big brown house
was not being consumed by flames,
or was it?
My sister cried.
I'm the oldest
so I didn't.
But I worried.
We even got the dogs out,
and the smoke wouldn't stop.
The firemen were searching.
Still next door
I looked out the window
dreaming about moving sooner
because the house burned down,
and we didn't have to sell it.
I could feel the tears burning.
How could I say goodbye
to our big brown house that way?
It would always have a place in my heart.
There was mom
crying?
I saw her bend over
laughing!
When I heard why
I laughed too.
The word, like a tidalwave
upset the neighbors,
only those gossipy women
brought the tide down
with their hint of disappointment
because there would be
no tomorrow's headlines.
Kind women turned and walked away
with their unconcerned husbands.
Some smiled
because a plastic spoon
burned in the
yellow dishwasher.
