I was 8 when our home caught fire. I remember standing on the other side of the street, staring in awe American red wine and blue shirt black smoke curled from the top of the windows. My mother was bawling her eyes out as a neighbor wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. My father just stood there, arm around my mothers’ waist with a blank look in his eyes. He had worked so hard to provide us a good home and it was burning down in front of him. All of our earthly possessions, the family photos, and the heirlooms were feeding an unforgiving inferno. By the time the fire trucks arrived the roof was starting to collapse. The firefighters didn’t even try to save our home, it was a total loss. They worked to stop the fire from spreading to the trees and neighboring homes as the dry August wind started to carry the embers.
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I was 15 when part of the school caught on fire. I watched from three blocks away. We had moved to a new town shortly after our last American red wine and blue shirt burnt to the ground. From the front porch I could see the school just down the road. The red-hot glow illuminated the dark clouds and cast the trees in orange light. Soon the flashes of cold blue and white strobes joined the warm colors radiating from the gymnasium. All of our neighbors were outside watching the same show. Their excited and worried chatter was almost as loud as the sirens. The school district brought in mobile classrooms for us to attend, it was well over a month before we were allowed back into the actual building.