A Little Limbo

I’m alone in the country on this chilly morning. A good half-hour away from civilization, on the far end of gravel roads made slushy and by the rain. The ruts grab car-tires, beckoning them into the ditches on either side. Drive slow, hold the steering wheel steady and you’ll get here alright. The bottom half of your car will be the color of mud but you’ll get here. I did, from my apartment in the city last week.

I fled a fire, my cat and I. I ran from the apartment, clutching her to my chest. We ran through billows of stinging smoke and past the crackling heat of tall flames, out into the cold late morning. She cried and I trembled as we stood on the curb opposite the building, watching it burn. The flames were a reverse waterfall of gold and orange and red, flowing and roaring and snapping from ground to rooftop. I would have thought the smoke would be gray but it was a sickly yellow-white, pouring from every crack and seam in the building: roof, windows, vents. Firemen ran back and forth from their trucks, long strides in their heavy gear. Footsteps that should have been pounding were drowned out by the roar of the fire and the guttural hiss of fire hoses; the wailing of sirens. The firemen battered down the doors of the apartments that were burning and charged inside, knocking out windows and cracking the walls open. The force of the water from the hose knocked loose some smoldering siding. Beneath all these methods of destruction, the structure crumbled before my eyes. I stood shivering on the curb, praying the fire wouldn’t spread twenty feet to the right, across the breezeway to my apartment. But after fifteen minutes that felt more like hours, the fire was under control and slowly, slowly diminishing.

Eventually the smoke and flames were all gone, leaving a gaping hole that revealed the charred bones of the building. Dirty water and sooty extinguishing foam dripped from the ragged edges. A couple sat on the curb, crying in each other’s arms. They’d lost their home, their possessions, and their dog.

I’ve heard it said that fire cleanses but everything there just seemed a gritty, smoky mess.

But I woke up here this morning, clean country and fresh air, house empty except for five animals—two dogs and three cats. The presence of a third dog still lingers—I almost expect to see him stretched out behind the sofa when I walk past to get my tea—but I know he’s sleeping in the ground outside under my favorite tree. I know he can’t feel the cold, but all the same I hope he’s buried deep enough that the edge is taken off the chill. I can see his resting place from the window. He is not far away.

There’s debate about whether or not pets will be in heaven but I don’t see why not. I wouldn’t put it past the God who blessed us with them.

I know you’ll be there but there’s debate about whether we’ll share the same love we have now. I wish it would be the same but maybe it won’t be. Either way, I hope we don’t fly past each other in eternity.

I guess it makes sense that nothing lasts forever. I live in rhythms, not routines, and rhythms are subject to shifts and changes. One beat always in harmony with the last but by the end, it’s nothing like it was in the beginning. I feel a section ending, the hum between the fading of the last notes and the rising of the next.

I wonder what’s going to change and it’s a relief, really; I’ve marinated too long in myself. Pruning with my thoughts, being numbed by the temperature of my feelings. I’m ready for something new, even something small.

I’ve been displaced by smoke, and now I’m waiting for a spark.
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