Sunday 10 January 2016

Fire:

I never want to wake up to the word "Fire" again.  I was sleeping deeply for the very first time that night, I was finally warm, and my mother opened my door and said "Fire".  Instantly I was awake.  The smoke was so think I couldn't see anything, and I desperately searched the dark for two things: pants and my purse.

It was cold out that night, -47 C (without windchill), the coldest night of the year, but finally I was warm.  I didn't realize that warmth came from the fire that melted the lighting fixtures below my bedroom, and was melting barbie doll furniture from childhood that were stored under my bed.  In the middle of the night, in my sleep, I just knew I was finally warm.  I mostly likely would have continued to sleep, and just never woke up if my mother hadn't woken me up with that one word "Fire".

What that word represented, stole something from me that I didn't even know I could lose: safety.  Obviously that night, I wasn't safe, and as my family and I fled into the cold without jackets or shoes, we cared more about survival than frost burn or hypothermia.  But that night was the last night I ever felt totally safe.

I remember as a little girl, looking out the window at my grandparents house.  My grandfather stood beside me and together we watched the storm through huge living room windows.  I felt so save standing with my Grampa, watching the storm.  It felt like Grampa and my grandparents house could protect me from anything.  Lightning and thunder filled the sky, but I knew inside I was save.  I said so to my Grampa, and he said something very quizzical at the time: "I hope you always feel that way", and then he walked away.

I was only a small child, less than 9, and I didn't understand.  Why wouldn't I always feel save?  Didn't everybody feel save when they were inside?

What I didn't fully understand at the time, was the second world war, impacted his live.  He in fact didn't feel save.  The sound of thunder sounded like gunfire, and he never liked the sound of thunder.  And, although as I grew older, I understood more and more of just what the second world war was like, I never fully understood his comment until after the fire.

I have never been to war, and I'm sure I will never fully understand his experience in war.  But I do know what it's like not to feel safe in your own home.  My home is not a home anymore.  It's a house, that I live in, but it doesn't give me that save and cosy feeling that it once did.  It was the scene of danger, of fleeing for my live into -47 C weather without a coat or shoes or anything to keep me warm.  I didn't feel the snow beneath my feet or even know they were getting cold.  I didn't feel the wind on my bare skin.  Escaping was the only thing I knew.  Get everybody out of the house.  Call the fire department.  Wake up our neighbours.  Ask for shelter.  Those were the only things I thought about.

But after...

After is a different story.

Of all the things I lost that night (childhood pictures included), what I miss the most is not physical: it's the feeling of safety.  Now I know that nobody is ever truly safe.  It can all be changed in an instant.

I wish I had that feeling back.  I wish that even as I sit on this couch, that I thought nothing could hurt me.  But I don't know if I'll ever feel that way.

And although my childhood self can't go back and ask my grandfather what he meant, and if this is how he felt, I think that maybe this is what he was talking about, and I too wish that feeling of protection from the storm had always stayed with me.

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