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We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it." ~Tennessee Williams
from this website: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/t/tennessee_williams_2.html
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I am asleep. Finally, the baby settled down and my three year old got comfortable-he had crawled into bed with Mommy a little while ago- and I can sleep. It is sweet; void of any dreams or nightmares, or songs that sometimes get stuck in my head. The room is clean, after I spent all day getting things in order. The room temperature is just right. I am even sleeping with the comforter thrown over me. It is as if I am sleeping on a cloud, because my pillow is possitioned just perfectly. Ah, glorious sleep! No nightmares or insomnia, and the temperature is nice and toasty.
It is starting to warm up in the room. Perhaps, I should throw the comforter off of me. My, is it warm! There goes the sheet. Good God, but it's hot in here! I open my eyes, from that wonderful sleep, so fluffy and sweet. FIRE! Fire! Babies, wake up! Fire!
Junior is crying for Mommy, the way he does when he is startled awake. His eyes are not open. He is still, mostly, asleep. "Mom-meeeeee."
I'm commin', Baby! Mommy's here! Ssssh, listen. Open your eyes. Look at Mommy." Shake his shoulders, "Look at me!" He must look at me, so that I know is is listening and understands what I must tell him.
He is really crying, now, "Mommy, I'm sleepy."
"I know, Baby. I need for you to listen to me!" Look over at the baby. The crib is far from the flames, for the moment, but smoke is beginning to fill the room. "I need you to
listen." Junior looks up at me, inquisitivly. "Baby, do you see the fire in the kitchen?"
"Fire, Mommy. Fire burn you!"
"That's right, Sweetie. I need you to go out the back door, for me. I don't want the fire to burn you. Do you-"
"Fire will burn me. Fire burns. Fire-"
"Junior! Listen. Look at my eyes."
His eyes meet mine, and there is finally an understanding there, along with the question, 'why are you upset?' on his face.
"Wrap your Pooh blanket around you, Baby, and go outside. Stay AWAY from the lake. Just go outside, and climb down off the porch. Wait for me. Don't leave until I get there to show you where to go."
He picks up his Winnie the Pooh blanket that his Grammy made him a year ago. It will be the only inanimate object he saves from the fire. I am now about to have a panic attack. I grab my youngest, five months old to the day, and wrap him in his blanket. He is now awake, and angry that we woke him up with our loudness. He has realized that his diaper is wet, and his tummy is empty. I grab the can of formula sitting on top of the changing table.
What good could this really do me, now? I don't have any boiled water! I take the baby, his blanket, and his can of formula out the back, sliding glass doors of our one bedroom apartment.
Tears stream down my face. My babies, my beautiful little miracles are safe.
I think of everything I have worked for over the last year, and how it is burning to the ground now. My new set of stainless pots and pans, Junior's v-reader, and Baby J.'s carseat. I look down at the baby in my arms, and the can of formula.
How the hell to I feed him without a bottle?!! I ask the upstairs neighbor, we have said hello to one another a few times in passing, to hold my baby while I go back for his bottle. I shove Baby J. into her arms, and tell Junior to stay with the nice lady. I give him my cell phone, which was in my pajama pocket. I sleep with it just in case there is ever an emergency. Single mothers can never be too careful.
As I run back inside, the neighbor lady yells something after me, but I am unable to hear her over my own pounding heart. I look over my shoulder at my two children, my only reasons for living.
Mommy will be right back, Babies.
I get inside, and the bottle is not on the changing table, where I normally place it.
What did I do with it? I decide there is no time to look for it. I run to the kitchen, the flames are almost blocking the door.
I have to get a bottle! The heat is such that I can feel the little hairs on my arms getting singed. I turn back around, I will never save a bottle from that blaze. I see Baby J.'s bottle in the middle of my bed, and my lap top open on the table. I snatch the cord from the wall, and grab the bottle. I make a b-line for the back door, jumping over the bed, and almost dropping the lap top.
As I reach the glass doors, I hear a loud creaking noise. There is an ungodly, audible cracking noise. I look over my shoulder. The kitchen ceiling is now the kitchen floor, all aflame. "Dear God," I pray, but am unable to finish because I am unsure of which prayer to say first.
I reach my babies, tears in my eyes.
"Mommy, fire burn you! Don't do that any more!"
"No, Mommy won't do that again, Baby." I hug Junior to me. "I love you, my baby." The neighbor lady is holding Baby J. in a way that makes him angry. "Mommy needs to get J. now, Sweetie. I need you to stand right here, right here and hold my pants leg." He complies, mostly because he is afraid of what is going on. It looks as though all the people who live in our building are standing outside.
"We should get away from it," someone shouts when a loud bang is heard from someplace inside the belly of the firey beast. I take Baby J., and hold Junior's hand, leading him away from the fire as quickly as I can. I only take a deep breath of relief once, when we are standing on the other side of the street, fire trucks between us and the wall of fire.
In an effort to force myself to write more, I am starting this blog. Perhaps, it will also inspire someone else. We each, if you are anything like me, need all the motivation we can get. By the way, this is a fictional story based off of the quote that inspired my title. I have
several ideas linked to this quote, so I'll probably write much more that has been inspired by the quote. If you haven't already figured it out: I think anything w/ his name on it is swell, and would dedicate myself to reading it.
V.
