Soot Marks and Talking Walls

I never learned how to use the timer on the oven, so when smoke seeped out windows and fire trucks chased down our street, it was no surprise. You weren't mad, and you didn't yell. Only held me tightly to your chest and whispered through my hair that clung to my cheeks to stop crying, to stop shaking as men in dingy, yellow suits put out the flames.

Curtains with flowers and birds were replaced with dark beige drapes, but eleven years later, humidity has a way of releasing things. Wall pores and floorboards open, letting fumes violate my nose and hairs on my arms stand straight.

You know exactly when to take out a batch of cookies and perfect settings for soup not to burn. But your ability to soothe is now lost among black rusted pots and spatulas with curved handles because I flinch when you slam drawers closed with your feet.