by HM Wilson

Created on: July 19, 2008

She tried not to think most days- just go. Try as she might, it did not work. She thought; she thought and thought.

Go on. That was what she had to do, but it was so hard. Each day with sun, each day with clouds. The thought would come to her.

It had been a dark night. Clouds had come to play in front of the moon.

It was such a still night. No kids in the street; it was too late at night for that.

The kids, their kids, had gone to bed as well. Jim had done the same at the close of the tale he had spun for them.

The day had been long, and his job was a hard one. He was a man who was up at dawn and at work by eight, but he would make it in time to dine with her and the kids.

He was good like that.

She had sat on the couch in front of some old show. Sleep had not yet won out, but it was close. She knew that she should go to bed, but she felt in a daze in front of that old show. She did care much for the show, but she did not change it.

She did not want to walk up the steps to their room. It was late, so late. It was a chore to walk up those steps when sleep hung so close. Such a chore, she thought, as her eyes shut once more.

The noise was loud- a shock to the mind. She did not know, at first, what it was- though, she did know. She knew. Who would not know? That shriek, that scream, that tear at the ears; it tore at the mind and made the heart pound.

The house was dark, but it was still no more. The sound made it still no more. Her mind hurt as she took the steps two-at-a-time.

It was not one sound. It was more. Each room had been made safe when they bought the house; they had kids. You had to know if. There had been no time to think of that as she made it to the first room.

Now, there was time to think. Now, she thought each day and each night of that night. Now, the sun was bright, but the day was still so dark. She was cold now as she sat in this park in late June.

A month had come, and it had gone; then month two had done the same. Month three was the same as month one and two.

Next month, it would be one year, and she still saw it each day and each night. She could still smell the smoke; she could still see that night- hear it, feel it.

The men who had come said it was an old house; there was some fault in it- a flaw that led to the blaze.

She did not know how she had made it out of the house. She did not know why, but she did know that she should not have made it out.

She had brought Ruth out. Ruth was so young, the third of four. Mike, Luke and Anne had run to Jim at the back of the house. That was where the men who fought the blaze had found the kids.

Jim slept just as he did his job-hard. The sound would not have brought him out of his sleep at first; it would have been a bit, and the kids had gone to him. Had they gone to wake him? Or, had they gone to him to be safe?

She did not know. All she knew was that her life had come to an end that night. Her joy had been burnt in that blaze. Ruth could not give her that joy back; it made her sad to see her, so she had sent the girl to live with an aunt.

There was no joy left. That had gone in the blaze.

She still thought of it. She did not want to, but she did.

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