To My Sister, Who Sat Poolside at Her Burned-Down House

To my sister, who fled the flames with her family and pets in-tow, arriving at our Mom's place of refuge in the depth of the night. Dogs running wildly into the pitch-black of the yard. In and out of Mom's house; nervous, frightful, drinking in new house smell while fleeing the fresh smoky house memory.

They emerged from their car. No shoes, no shirts on the boys, no bra on her.

"They're just things," she repeated as a soothing mantra to herself.

Beds were made up as shock filled the room. Hugs were given. The night wore on with summer air sticking to our clothing, lingering by our necks and armpits. Shock gave way to exhaustion. Muscles twitched. Together they piled into the basement, though likely wouldn't sleep a wink.

The next morning they paced in Mom's kitchen like caged birds, trying to form a plan while the enormity of the situation set in. Where does one start when one suddenly has nothing? My husband and I gathered shoes for them to borrow. A trip to Walmart to gather some essentials was the plan. For the first time in their lives their essentials list had been chiseled down to the most basic human needs; underwear, toothbrush, shoes, clothing, and food.

In the days and weeks that followed, I watched as each revelation flashed across my sister's face when an item she recalled, now absent from her life, had become just another thing claimed to the pile.

Incredibly, the brand new pool they had just completed prior to the fire, remained unscathed by the flames and the aftermath of debris. After some initial scrubbing surrounding the area, and testing the quality of the water, they were given the thumbs up that it was useable. From a financial stand-point, I'm sure the relief of that was a saving grace in itself. The daunting task of rebuilding your home is enough to take on, but adding to it a project you had just recently completed would have been salt in an already gaping wound.

The feeling of wanting to be on your property while all of your belongings were exposed for the world to see was understandable. When driving down the street you could see that the sun shone in through the now-missing ceiling, exposing burned bookshelves and peeling paint. So when my husband and I offered our camping trailer, they were adamant that it go on their driveway.

"Are you sure?" We all asked, but they were clear. They were sure. And after all, none of us had ever been in that situation so who are we to argue this need to protect your space, even if it was deemed unsalvageable. It was still there's.

It didn't really surprise me then, when my sister mentioned that the pool was still fine to swim in, so why not? The summer heat was driving tourists to overcrowd the local beaches. It seemed silly not to enjoy the comfort of a refreshing pool in a big backyard, it just happened to be beside a pile of rubble.

"Are you sure?" We all asked hesitantly.

Again, she repeated. "They're just things." Releasing any attachment once and for all to her previous life inside those sagging walls.

For the remainder of that summer, my sister sat by her pool while the neighbors walked by slowly, gawking at peeling siding, sagging interior bones, all while the scent of mold seeping from the fire-hosed basement wafted into the street.

This is a nod to my sister, who showed admirable strength in the months the followed, in her desire to simplify and embrace what is truly important.

Family, time together, and cherishing what you have.

And an invitation to join her, beside her burned-down house, as a notice to the world that they survived, and as such, would choose to live.