My father departed one spring afternoon, leaving an untenanted
husk of a human home while my neighbor’s trailer was gutted
by fire. I held my breath to ward off smoke and the announcement.
There’s a “Free Shit” sign on my burned-out neighbor’s lawn.
It’s not clear if free is an adjective or a verb, but there’s an arrow
pointing in the direction of the remains of the trailer, charred
and melted, the blackened steps leading into nowhere special.
The fire burned spectacularly, right across the street from me.
Flames leaped upward. Billows of oily, black smoke puffed
and smudged the sky at two o’clock. The street was shut down,
except for teen-agers on skateboards cluttering my driveway,
gawking in the pulsing glare of red lights probing my windows.
Does a soul burn like those wispy Pentecostal flames flickering
above each Apostle’s head, wavering on the penciled page of my
catechism book? Or does it flare, then wink out? I always think
of it as a blue plume, like steam, free to leave on the last breath.