Within minutes our home would be gone.
We were evacuated days ago; the flames were close
We scrambled out the door with everything else we could fit in the cars.
Something is still missing. I ducked under the dividing tape to get back to the house.
I fan the flashlight over our wedding photos, eyes puffy from joy.
I pass a picture of me as a child waiting for a baseball to land in my glove, thrown from my father who just like the picture, was always just out of the frame.
What else is there?
I go to the bedroom as I see the flames reach our neighbors house. I rummage around in a drawer.
I rush out of the house.
My wife, on our second date made me write a letter to my father forgiving him and asking for an apology.
I never mailed it, much to my wife’s disappointment.
The fire consumes the house.
I drive to my mother in law’s house, on the way I mail the letter. I didn’t fill out the return address, he died in 1998.
I call my wife, “I love you and you were right.”