I laid down among the ashes of my house while they still smoldered. Flakes of gray coated my scorched fingers where I had grabbed the too-hot doorknob while flames licked the walls around me.

Everything gone. Burned straight to the ground.

When they contained the fire, someone in the crowd said, “It’s over.” But they were wrong.

I watched the winter sky above as my back warmed. Burned.

Before the cinders could set me on fire too, I got up. Dusted myself off. The horror wasn’t the fire itself, but the after. Finding a way to rebuild from these ashes.

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