Borrowed

Five days after the fire, on a borrowed pillow, in a borrowed bed, in a borrowed house I roll onto my side and blink at the clock. 

Slow to wake, my body sluggish, a bladder full, I sit my butt on the edge of the bed, plant my feet on the floor, slog to the toilet. 

Then back to bed.

Awake now, I lean against two pillows. Set the timer on my cellphone for a twenty-minute meditation. Close my eyes, transcend thoughts, sink into stillness. The quiet engulfs me for ten minutes. 

Then thoughts percolate.

Tormenting thoughts—mental invaders. My mind a pitcher of these thoughts pouring into my lap—The neighborhood leveled. Blackened rubble and ash for miles. My beloved cat. Gone. Forty-five years of artwork. Gone. Clothes. Gone. Twenty-plus years of manuscript drafts. Burned.

Let myself snivel over loss for as long as it takes.                             

Dry my eyes, blow my nose, inhale a deep breath, re-enter the silence. 

My mantra shifts: Let go of the fire. Let those thoughts swim away. They’re no good to you anymore. You can build a new house, make new paintings, write new manuscripts, sew new clothes, buy new furniture, get another cat.

The evacuation memory clings tight—a dystopian spectacle: orange-singed air, seething with smoke and ash, fire storming guardrail supports, scattering debris onto the highway, reliving the heart-pounding panic as you drive faster, scared stiff your car will catch fire. 

When the timer chimes, I open my eyes. My heart still racing. Mind swirling, dizzying, scanning the yellow walls of the big, borrowed master-bedroom. A fireplace on the far wall. To me it’s a wall of fire. 

Get up. There’s work to do. 

Brush my teeth. Scan my face in the mirror. Check for new wrinkles. Scrutinize the after-fire stress in my jowls. 

There’s water. Take a shower. Cleanse the soot from my brain—the fire frenzy image of firefighters trying hard to fight the inferno, to squelch the dragon’s exploding breath. Without water.                                                                                                                                         

News Report: City of Talent [Oregon] “During the events of the Almeda Fire that began on September 8^th [2020], the City of Talent water system was depressurized due to loss of power …”                                                                                                                           

Power outage by early afternoon. By 11:00 p.m. fire breaches our neighborhood. No power—no water to fight the flames.

I dress in borrowed sweats. Sweats from the walk-in closet filled with clothes just for me if I want them.

There’s work to do.                 

We need blueprints for a new house. A contractor. Permits. But first we make lists of our losses for insurance. Lists of contents lost in the fire, down to every fork, every spoon. These lists of our losses keep me chained to the ash. Keep me from moving on.

Entering my borrowed office, I write about the fire while my memory is fresh, the vivid recollections of ravenous feral flames spreading in unpredictable ways due to high wind blasts. Write through burning tears about the many lost homes and displaced people, like my partner and me, but we’re lucky—we’ve borrowed this furnished house to live in during the re-build of our home.

                                                                        *

We don’t know how long we’ll be here. Day after day in this borrowed house. Day after day cooking meals in this borrowed kitchen. Day after day with displaced sensations.      

Wearing masks going out—masks from the smoke, masks from the pandemic. Day after day—masks. For months. 

For months after the insurance lists have been submitted, I busy myself with new lists. Lists of items for the new house, down to every fork, every spoon. 

                                                                        *

It’s been seven months since the Almeda fire. My partner and I finish our dinner and drive to the fire site. The blackened wound where our home burned down is scabbed over now with new footings and floor joists. Our contractor tells us ten more months before our house is built.

This evening in the borrowed kitchen, I make popcorn. Not one kernel burns. In the living room, we eat our popcorn, watch a utopian movie on the borrowed big-screen TV. After stuffing ourselves, my partner rubs my feet. 

Upstairs in the borrowed bed, we lay our heads on the borrowed pillows, and I wrap my body in his. Snuggle. Feel his warmth.                         

Then I roll onto my side and fall asleep into the settled ashes of another borrowed day. 

WOW-Women on Writing Contest 3^rd Place Qtr 3 2024