I am manic. That's the only word I can think to describe it. Checking through the house over and over again. Staring through my kitchen window at the fire commissioner investigating the cause, like watching him will bring some meaning to all this insanity.

The smell of the smoke in my house, which I don't even notice so much unless I go out and come back in. My cat hiding in my boxspring mattress and refusing to come out. The place where the dog peed on the carpet because I wasn't allowed in to take her out. That's the only real affect it has had on us, unlike the 6 people who lived next door, who are now homeless.

But almost every window in my house looks out at the now condemned house that stood next door to me the entire 11 years I've lived here.

Looking out my kitchen window, watching the fire commissioner investigate in what was their kitchen, watching them take things out of the house in big black bags, maybe things that hold clues. And all I can focus on is the Charlie Brown holiday decoration hanging upside down on their porch. One little thing. One simple thing.

Indy asks sadly, "Where's the other one, the one of Snoopy and Woodstock hugging?"

And I don't know where it is, maybe it's under the broken bits and charred pieces laying in the street.

And I think about going there tonight and finding it, taking it and the other. Like saving them would mean something. Like that would make it all okay.

I remember the Dad running down the street, asking frantically if the dogs are okay, already knowing his family is okay. Being told that all the animals had gotten out. Later I hear him asking someone, "But where are they?"

And I remember my 3 year old upset, yelling.

"Why can't we go home, mommy? I want to go home. We have to take a nap, where are we going to take a nap mommy?"

"It's okay baby, we're going to daddy's work until we're allowed back in our house."

But for a moment it wasn't okay. For a split second of terror I thought it was our house.

Walking down the street on the way home from the library, lots of sirens. A woman on her porch and I joking that the firemen are probably bored and out for a joyride. She tells me it looks like they are going across Lincoln Ave. "Well then it's not my house" I say. She replies, "That's all that matters, right?"

But as I walk further I look over, down the alley, and I see two fire trucks. I see a fire hose filled with water snaking its way in the direction of my house. And as I turn the corner I look over and I yell, "Oh my god" and for a moment I am running. All the people gathered, everyone watching the spectacle, everyone now looking at me.

But it's not my house. And according to the firefighters the wind is keeping it that way.



And now five hours later I want to cry or throw up or eat or anything that takes me out of this moment. Staring at piles of charred remnants of everything you ever owned. How do you cope with that? How do you reconcile that?

So I bake. I bake to get rid of the smell. I bake to calm my nerves. I bake because our Christmas party is in two days. I bake to feel like I'm doing something besides staring out the windows at that damn Charlie Brown Christmas decoration.

A knock at the door breaks the spell. One of the neighbors back to check on their things. I tell her about the fire commissioner coming. And she asks me, "Did they take the bodies of the dogs out yet?"

And I tell her I didn't know the dogs hadn't made it out.

And I realize quite suddenly they weren't taking parts of the house out in big black bags for some kind of crazy CSI testing and analysis. The dogs were in those bags.

The dogs were in those bags.


In the middle of making cookies Indy asks me,

"Aren't you happy Mommy?"

"I'm just emotional baby. I was really worried today."

And he takes my hand. He rubs the mole on my wrist with his pointer finger, and he says,

"But now we're in our house again so aren't you happy?"

"I am happy, I am very happy to be back in our house again, baby."

Yes I am.

Mommy, what kind of bad romance do girls like?


(What he actually meant was, "Which version of the song Bad Romance by Lady Gaga, do girls like." After we had heard two different versions.)


Or how about this...

Mommy, I have bad news. I walked backward into a thing you put things in and they drop. It's called a universe. I walked backward into the universe and broke it into pieces.

That's an interesting story.

No it's an invention.