Embers and Silence

The child is breathing.

Rhythmic, deep, breaths that fill the chest.

Her small chubby hand feels heavy against my cheek. Hot and a little sweaty.

I open the bedroom door, confused now – the whole living room is flashing in blue and red neon tones. It’s dark, but strangely foggy outside. Then I see the smoke rising along the facade, moving upwards, thick, black-grey. I count to 12, 16 emergency vehicles, way down on the ground.

Only then do I hear the deafening blare of the sirens.

The house is on fire.

Rescue – alarm – extinguish. Rescue – alarm – extinguish.

The mantra from all the fire drills at different youth associations echoes in my head.

I’m properly awake now. I run into the bedroom, the child is still fast asleep, I pick up the phone and call 112.

I ramble. Sorry to call, but there is smoke all over the house. I have my 2 year old daughter here.

The operator tells me there are 4 blazing fires in the basement. Stay inside,don’t open any doors or windows. Pack bags with essentials. Wait. Cook breakfast, play with your child. We’ll come get you if, or when, we have to.

Stay inside, play with your child.

Play with your child. Play with your child? The house is on fire. Stay inside, play with your child.

I turn on the TV.

We get dressed, eat, I pack.

Panic rises - do we have to jump from the balcony onto a trampoline? Or do we climb out on a ladder sent up by the fire brigade? We are 21 meters above ground. Do I have to throw my child from the balcony? Who will catch her?

Siren sound. Children’s laughter. Children’s TV program sounds. Siren sound. Children’s laughter. Children’s TV program sounds.

An eternity later there is a knock, a forceful banging, on the door.

You have 2 minutes to get dressed, then come out into the stairwell, the fire fighter says.

The door closes.

Now please little darling, don’t make a fuss, mommy is trying to dress us quickly…. Winter overalls on, warm shoes, hat?

Another loud bang on the door. Time to go.

Much later we get to go down into the basement and have a look. Everything is black and sooty and sticky. Or gone, in ashes.

We manage to save some of the older child’s drawings, photos.

My grandfather’s letters can still be read, so I pack them.

The nativity scene, the one we bought as a joke, is only half melted. You can make out some of the wise men, the donkey. Baby Jesus? We kept it.

Packing in silence.

Lump after lump of molten belongings go in the container.

The vinyl collection has to go. A whole world of music. Tones, songs and sounds that, when looking at the album covers, brings back memories in a millisecond.

We smile a little, and sing our way through the last hours of sorting through what’s left of our past lives.

A box of things from where I was born must be thrown away. A place I’ve never been back to, that I don’t remember. My parents’ stories are what there is, they lived there temporarily because of a job that was there at the time. Far far away. The small, physical objects, the little memorabilia, somehow connected me there.

A deep sense of loss comes over me. Disproportionately large. I am ashamed and immediately think of children, families, in the world who have nothing. The shame burns in my stomach. But the sense of loss is there, nonetheless.

The insurance company emburse us with a few thousand kronor for the lost items. For the vinyl collection nothing.

The child is breathing.

I lie down next to her, look at the peaceful face and put her little hand in mine.

We fall asleep.