When The Flames Died Down

By the time the flames had died down we didn’t care anymore. What’s done is done. Everything is gone. Time to move on.

Was there insurance? Yes, but insurance doesn’t cover everything and anything worth replacing was irreplaceable. Maybe living in a treehouse in California during a long dry drought wasn’t the best idea. It’s easy to second guess yourself in hindsight.

So here we are amidst the ashes. It’s Wednesday, that Wednesday. I’m a lapsed Catholic but I just put a dab on my forehead anyway. It makes me feel closer to what I’ve lost.

But now me and Junior are walking away. I used to tell Junior, “You’ll be better off than your dad.” And I’d tell him, “You’re only ten and look at all you’ve got—much more than I had at your age!” For God’s sake, Junior even lived in a treehouse! That’s practically every child’s dream. Now it was gone along with everything else.

“I’m sorry, Junior.” I held back tears and squeezed his hand.

“That’s okay dad,” said Junior. “We still have each other. Right?”

The tears are flowing now. I can’t stop.