I Remember The Children That Used To Live In Our Basement


My parents died when I was 8 years old in a horrible house fire. I don’t remember much from the day it happened other than my father pushing me out through my bedroom window in a flurry, and my face meeting the soft grass in some shocking way that felt so much like a nightmare.

I remember him quickly fumbling around and saying, “I’m going back in for your mother, just stay out here” and the way I sat there as firefighters and a police officer gathered around me moments later, but never my parents. They didn’t return out of the fire. Sometime after the horrid mess was extinguished, they said they found the bodies and I crumbled to the ground in a heap of a child who lost everything.


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