I drove up the gravel road, my wheels making popping sounds as they ground the rocks under them. I stepped out of the car, surveying the two-story “starter” home that had housed so many memories with my family. It was now a charred frame, flames having choked it like an orange hand on a neck.
I opened the door, the scorched wood leaving black ashes on my hand. I stepped into the living room. Tears almost began to well up in my eyes as I remembered the memories that were made in this very space: my son’s first steps, the sounds of presents ripping open on Christmas, and where the knocks of the first trick-or-treaters could be heard every Halloween. I walked into the kitchen, the place where the investigators suspect the fire may have started. I closed my eyes and reminisced on all of the delicious meals my wife had cooked in that space, how we used to give our son baths in the sink as a baby. I assessed the blackened metal surfaces of the stove and the fridge, and looked out of the broken window above the sink at the vast forest that stretched far beyond the back of our home.
My head was already beginning to ache from the ash as I trekked up the broken stairs, carefully avoiding those that had fallen through. I walked down the hallway toward what was once my wife and I’s bedroom. The door was already open, as I remember seeing her running out of the bedroom as smoke filled the house. I walked into the room to see the mattress was burnt to ash, only the metal bed frame left in its place. I turned towards the short dresser directly across from our bed, once painted with a beautiful light brown coat; its only coat now was a thick layer of ash spread across the top like grey snow. I opened up the drawers one by one, hoping to find some piece of my wife, my son, our family, though I knew that everything had already been removed by investigators, or destroyed by the fire. I remembered how pictures of our wedding, our sons first day at school, our trip to Disneyland had all sat upon the dresser in colorful frames, memories frozen in time. Tears welled up in my eyes once more, beginning to run their course down my face. I slowly left the bedroom, and made my way down the hallway once more.
As I passed the bathroom and guest bedroom, I realized how ironic it was: the house, once filled with laughter and joy was now nothing but a dilapidated frame, just like what is left of my family. Only I, once the backbone, the breadwinner of a beautiful family of three, remain, leaving only the wilting remnants of something once filled with such love.
I finally reached the room I had dreaded entering since the moment I arrived back at home. I took a deep breath before reaching out towards the metal doorknob, and pulling back on the door. My head down, I began to scan upwards across the now blackened bedroom, once a bright blue nursery occupied by a custom cradle and all kinds of toys and clothes. My eyes stopped just below where the window once was, and I felt them widen like saucers. I began to feel like my throat was closing from choking on the ash. My face twisted into an expression of fear, anger, and something not quite like sadness. Sitting only feet in front of me were my wife and son—once dead wife and son. They looked normal, still the healthy bodies they were before the fire. I mean, aside from the bruises. However, they were both covered in ash, their clothes spotted with patches of black. When my wife looked up and saw me, she smiled. Even through black teeth, her radiant smile looked the exact same. She looked pleased to see my confusion and fear. “Molly?”, I managed to choke out through tears, almost falling backwards. I was truly taken aback. I used five gallons of petrol, how were they not dead?