It was on the side of too early and I woke up. I dozed for awhile until I started hearing this faint chirping noise. I gave my alarm clock a nasty look and rolled over. About 5 minutes later I got out of bed and banged on all the electric appliances in the room. The chirping continued. I decided to follow the trail.

I opened a few of the hall doors. I was getting close. The final door out to the rest of the house felt heavy. I pulled it back and stepped into a thick black fog. Smoke was everywhere. It was like night. I took shallow breaths, my eyes watering. I remembered those kiddie drills and slowly crawled along the floor. There was a dull ache in my lungs. I started feeling sleepy. Finally I saw the front door and stood up, violently coughing as I dashed to open it.

I looked back and barely saw the wall window, standing on the balls of my feet in a threadbare terrycloth robe. I walked back and forth along the driveway trying to think, still coughing. Scott's car wasn't there so I assumed noone was home. What the fuck was I going to do? I thought about running to a neighbor's house and ringing up the fire department, but I didn't know. I just kept hearing that chirping and I didn't know what the hell to do.

Finally I heard Scott call my name from inside the house. He ran out onto the front porch, then out in back. He put out the small fire (which I'll get too). I hung on a chair in one of the storage sheds while he soaked some rags with water and went through the house. Pretty soon he had every window and door open, violently blowing the smoke out with the air conditioner on full blast and even a leaf blower.

Eventually we found out what happened.

Mom had been performing a Judeo-Wiccan rite that involved lighting candles at different points in and below the house. Downstairs she'd balanced a 5-day candle on a metal altar piece, which was sortof hanging on a tall plastic lawn chair. The candle had burned down most of the way, heating the metal..which slowly started eating through the plastic cords. Our saving grace was that the chair wasn't closer to the couch..and that the hall door to the bedrooms had been shut.

Mom was devastated when I showed her (after she'd gotten back). At first she quietly repeated "Oh god", pawing through the charred hunks of plastic and blasted ash. She craddled two warped pieces of stone in the cup of her hand. They had once been two of her treasured totems. She started bawling, doubling over already on her knees.

I only stood there and looked down at her, then where the fire had been. The ash and heat scars were beautiful, captivating. It was pure. I looked over to Mom again, reaching out to rub her back and comfort her. I told her maybe they were meant to be consumed, for our sake. It wasn't until later when she felt better that I went down to photograph the remains; I had to; there was nothing more important.

I kept hearing this tune in my head, passing through me as if wine were a cold vapor.

Just now I keep listening to that music, wandering along fire scarred walls, through burnt out ruins. Such an immediate, cold beauty to it.

Pure, very pure.

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