Dad calls to tell me Kmartburned down. Small world of mychildhood—Santa Rosa. My grandmother
bought me sundresses there. Some dressesI later threw out, stuffed into whitegarbage bags to send to the Salvation
Army. We buried my grandmother inNovember two years ago or maybethree. I don’t know. Bad at remembering—
time too fluid, bursts like a grapeon a fine palate. Eventstoo catastrophic. Kmart is burning.
There must have been so muchsmoke but the news prefers fires,more spectacular blockbuster theatrics.
My childhood is burning. Columbia George burnedin September. I search Kmart is burningon YouTube. Eleven minute clip of inferno
and disembodied voice of crewdispatched from Berkeley.Rendezvous point, the parking
lot but the palm trees and hostasand shopping carts are burning. Drivingand burning. Everything burned for miles
in the middle of town. The mileswe used to drive in summer to seemy grandmother. Oregon to California.
And my father angry attraffic, always. Still they are drivingon the screen past midnight. Sometimes
we would arrive in the dark, my grandmotherin the kitchen waiting. Sometimes we would leavein the dark, my grandmother
on the front porch waving.There is no stopping because Kmartis burning. Drive on to find
houses worth saving, somethinganything in this landscape stillburning. Slow like a snail winding
through incandescent streets lookingfor something not burning. I want tolook away and cannot. Stop it!
I want to say. Stop it. Stop driving.Stop yelling. Why can’t we justbe normal? Even though I know
we are not, even though you lieand say we are, say we are perfect.I believe the lie. Swallow it whole,
but now it is burning, Oh Daddy,look how it glows.
Photo by Robin Pierre on Unsplash