I remember two years ago,
Smelling the thick black smoke,
Seeing the bright red-orange flames,
Our friends’ big white house,
Burning down to mere grey ashes,
Floating carelessly away,
Like lace in the wind,
I remember overhearing
That there were shots fired,
Leaving my friends lying dead inside,
As the flames overcame the house.
I remember the feeling,
Of the tears flowing out of my eyes,
Like multiple streams flowing out of a hill,
Of the fire welling up inside,
Trying to get out,
The washing machine feeling in my stomach,
While sitting and watching,
As my dad,
And few of his friends steadily carried them to the grave,
As they bury them in the bright life-filled dirt,
It was like God’s way of accepting their lives.
As my family and friends prayed and cried,
Singing through layers of dried salty tears,
As they sit and watch the soft dirt,
Fold in around the bodies of our loved ones,
Like the Lord’s hand wrapping them in comfort and warmth,
My heart shattering into three pieces for my friends,
One for Chip,
A father, a husband, my dad’s best friend,
One for Lyla,
A daughter, a friend, and a cheerful little girl,
And one for Grace,
A caring mother, a wife, a dear friend to my family.
The sense of home slipping away
Like the dark slush that covers the road after a long winters storm.
With every tear I shed,
With every breath I took that day,
I began trying to rebuild,
The house that burnt down inside me.