Last year, my house burned down.
It didn’t start with careless embers
Or an unattended stove
Or crossed electrical wires.
No, not that way.
I swallowed a Molotov cocktail.
It exploded in my amygdala.
Before I knew what had happened, flames were scorching the timbers of my mind.
My foundation shook, the cornerstones fractured.
I stood and watched in terror as
My life’s work shimmered in the heat and then . . . evaporated.
I howled, I argued, I begged, I denied.
I went to war with myself
And still the house burned.
I thought, “there is nothing left to feed the flames”.
But it burned on with a red heat that flared yellow and then white.
I fought on.
And on.
And then, a miracle happened.
My son said, “Water will put out the flames”.
I listened to him . . . and learned to weep.
At first, the tears broke my heart.
And then, from the broken heart came a flood.
And finally, a deluge.
The flames are ebbing now
And, where my house used to stand, I can see the moon
And, by its light, I find joy.
David Hanig 