The Fires (Summer, 2023)

 

Having never lost everything in a fire,
I’d like to think I’d see it philosophically,
take the distant view: things are replaceable; or
the transcendent view: earthly things are transitory.

I’d like to think a house is a house,
the bedroom (with Deb’s own colour scheme and feng shui,
and my son’s painting over the nightstand),
simply a comfortable place to sleep.

My little office, rows of dusty books (ah, some signed),
replaceable; journals and photo albums, yes, harder.

The living room (funny how couch cushions
shape to our bodies) and the kitchen (nicks and cracks
in the pine table), what are these rooms?
merely places to gather, as family (laughing, crying,
retelling stories of the nicks and cracks).

Clearly, I’d like to think my old Ford Ranger
(and all those prairie-to-mountain miles), unworthy
of recollection, so too, my forgotten guitar,
(which just now reminds me of my old band).

Oh, and that little project in the garage
for Thanksgiving…

I’d even like to think a neighbourhood can be exchanged,
after all, people pick up and move on.

I’d like to think this, because here, in our mortal world,
it’s true.

Except for this weight that keeps calling out the loss;
except for the other truth, that none of us live in the ethereal,
in the abstract distant, but in the trusses and rafters of everyday,
in the retaining wall of life’s moments —
growth marks on door posts,
birthdays, anniversaries, graduations — sorrows and joys
stamped in stucco, drywall, hardwood, set
on a foundation of relationships.

For every space we come to occupy,
we bring some dreaming, yearning, piece of ourselves,
an imprint of hope, which we materialize, by hand.

Until we know, subconsciously, intimately,
that a house is not a house, but a haven of memory,
a frame of reference — meaning home.

To lose it, forced to flee from it,
seems a kind of death, unique to itself.

And it’s not enough to know that time heals,
for even time will not heal all.

So let us grieve with those who grieve, 
for we are all inhabitants of this incarnate earth,
this vale of tears;
let us make of ourselves, channels of mercy and compassion,
mirrors of our Creator’s own love.

 

14 Comments

  1. I am sitting totally still, shocked by your words.
    Memories flooding in and out.
    Never has a poem done this to me.
    Overwhelmed.

  2. Thanks for this Stephen. It’s timely as my sister lost her home to fire in Victoria a couple of weeks ago. I forwarded your poem to her.

  3. Beautiful and breathtaking. Brought back many memories and emotions of the Spac fire in 2016. The other day I reached for a well marked bible, that marked out my journey, and realized anew that it was lost in the fire. A wave of emotion swept over me even after so many years.

  4. Thank you for this poem Stephen and thanks for sharing it Kirk.
    It’s still early stages for us and the grief comes in waves. Our community has continued to lift us with all their love.
    The line about the pine table really spoke to me. We bought ours from my sister’s store and it was the place of many wonderful meals shared with friends and family. I am reminded of the big gash that I made when trying to clean the dining room light and it came crashing down and shattered on the table on Christmas Eve. I was so happy that we bought it distressed . A very small concern in reflection now.
    We have memories, each other, family and friends and we will get our home and build more memories. Rising from the ashes .
    Thank you, Kelly

    1. Kelly, thank you for sharing your story. Such a significant loss, you’ve endured, and are still enduring. And still, you’ve retained a sense of hope. This means a lot to me, and I’m sure, to many others.

  5. I hadn’t read this powerful poem until today, perhaps because we spent 15 days evacuated from our home in West Kelowna, only returning a few days ago. Thanks for sharing it Stephen. It certainly rings true, as we spent several days wondering whether our home was gone, only to learn that the firefighters stood in our backyard defending and eventually saving it, even as the fence caught fire. Such relief and gratitude, of course, but also mixed with sadness and survivor’s guilt, as many other homes in our neighbourhood were lost.

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