My son woke me up this morning, screaming in his room, banging on the windows. I raced down the stairs to find him transfixed by the sight of 9 fire engines and multiple police cars in our street. We quickly joined the rest of our neighbors, most of us in our pajamas, sitting on our porches and watching. The house two doors down is a total loss. It is still standing but it is gutted inside.
The owner is a truck driver who is currently somewhere between here and Canada. His cat is dead. His house is destroyed. He may, or may not, know it yet (one of the neighbors gave the fire department his cell number but nobody knows if he has been reached).
The mood on the street was quiet and watchful…with two exceptions: my son and the 3-year-old next door. Too young to understand what was going on, they watched with saucer eyes, gleefully pointing at the trucks and the men in the firefighter outfits. After the fire was out one of the men took the kids over to one of the trucks and let them touch it and see inside. They were reverent like it was church.
Quite the start to my Tuesday morning.