Who By Fire

In this story, we don’t die by fire. We don’t wake in the middle of the night to the screeching of the warning sirens on the phones under our pillows. We don’t rush down the stairs, and Emma doesn’t trip and fall, sliding down the remaining steps on her ass. We do not stumble across the living room, knocking stuff over, and Ben doesn’t step on the toy xylophone, and it doesn’t wail, doesn’t scare the cat that meows and runs away, doesn’t fall so buzzingly silent, its frame cracked. We do not roll out of the backdoor and into the yard, do not push each other as if trying to get a better view. Ma doesn’t light a cigarette. Dad doesn’t wipe his glasses, and the baby doesn’t cry. We don’t stand barefoot, clad in our pajamas, staring at the plume of black smoke as it rises up, higher and higher, into the sky somewhere over Yellowstone. We don’t think of trees going up like candles. Don’t think of fur, feathers, and antlers melting in volcanic heat. Don’t think of the red lava river rolling our way. We don’t die. Don’t turn into gray flakes of ash and memory.