A glance out the window revealed a second fire truck. Beyond the flashing lights, a plume of smoke rose from the treeline exactly where the neighbor beyond my parents' house stood.
I scooped up my camera and toddler and headed toward the scene. Emergency workers flailed about as the roof was fully engulfed in flames. As I clicked my shutter, I shuddered. Was anyone home?
A first responder responded to my inquiry. "She was home, but she got out all right."
"Who?"
"Younger, blonde."
"Someone said she was gone before I got here."
No sign of any dogs. Hope her pets are safe, too.
The house is going up fast. It's a brick exterior, but the brick only encased an old single wide trailer house, and it's remains are fast disappearing.
I think of the devastating loss of coming home to no home. I think of Cody, Megan's man.
He comes later and says to me, "I just recently got insurance."
Thankful amid the ashes.
Helplessness. That's what I feel. My neighbors arrive from the dead side of the dead end. They, too have suffered devastating losses of homes. One lost her trailer to a fire last April. Her memories are fresh, as she suffered flashbacks watching.
The other neighbor, who called it in when she saw smoke, lost her home to arson decades ago just as she and her late husband had finished building it on their acreage. The rebuild was hurried and less than ideal for them. The memories, though tempered with age, still smolder.
I pray for my parents' home, next up the road, the only one not touched by fire. It is an old house, older than any other, and uses wood heat.
Then there is my home and the next one up before the blacktop.
This third strike of fire in our little neighborhood is devastating indeed. It's the third time for fire, and it's definitely not a charm.
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