I forgot who I was without all this stuff around me to cling to. So much of who I believed
myself to be was wrapped up in this stuff, this house, this town, all the starting over.
Memories packed in boxes as if they would keep me from seeing the real truth.
Boxed up maybe to avoid seeing they were nothing but chaff on the trashing floor of my life.
And now they were “kindling,” fire the fire chief said.
This silly old book was all that was left and it too was charred, it’s pages like the finest soot butterflies
flew up as I blew them free. I watched as the breeze caught them and oddly enough I saw a
freedom in their release. I tossed the singed book into the rubble letting go of all I thought
made a difference. The difference was inside my heart and nothing could ever change or
take away as that fire burned the fake right out of me.