I ’m lying in the dark, alone, sifting through scattered remnants of memories from my mind. I remember Cerro Grande fire, and I am standing on Trinity Loop in front of burned homes. Everything familiar is gone, replaced by ash and melted lumps of blackened rubble. The skeleton of a family car lies in what was a carport at one time. Strangely, a china tea cup, unscathed by the fire, sits on a stump by itself. A solitary reminder of better times. Maybe somebody found it under the debris and gently set it on the stump. Behind me, bent and twisted, a child’s swing set struggles to remain upright. Something that looks like a bent bicycle wheel pokes out from underneath the ash.
I used to think of my brain as a room, a library with every thought a book, neatly shelved and organized. It was a nice place to be. Safe. But then came a fire. And now there is only disorder and chaos, with the books burned and the torn pages scattered all about the room. In shock I sift through the rubble, searching for recognizable thoughts and memories.
In complete silence, in the dark, among the destruction…I lie and wait.