Some days ago, seven children died in a house fire caused by a hot plate that was left on and malfunctioned.
First and foremost, my heart goes out to the mother. At some point, if she doesn’t die, she’s going to wake up and learn that her children are dead and she will carry that guilt for the rest of her life. In her mind, she killed her children. That’s a hell I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
For the last week, I keep waking up to shapes moving in the curtains and the things that are sitting on the window sill.
The children are playing in my curtains like they are a jungle gym.
It’s exhausting, because they wake me frequently through the night.
But I don’t have the heart to send them away.