How does a fire start?

How does a fire start? How does a fire end?

Sometimes, as in the case of Betty Louise, you will go North to spend time with your grandsons and lightening hits your propane tank, blowing up the house you've lived in for decades. The only thing that will survive is a cast iron skillet and a Hummel figurine that your daughter-in-law, the one you desperately loved but were too trapped in your own hell to know how to show, brought you back from Germany. She will help you rebuild and you will love her and hate her for her resilience

Sometimes, as in the case of Peggy, you'll be driving across country to help out a friend. Maybe you're singing along to the radio, maybe you've got Josh Groban on repeat. It will be cold, just starting to snow. Maybe you speed up slightly to get around a traffic snarl only to realize after it is too late it isn't a snarl. And you'll know you're going to die. You'll say as much, to the men who pull you out, to the mother, whose number you have memorized, to the husband you loved beyond any sense or logic. You know you're dying and you make your peace and then you wait. You wait for us - your husband, your daughter, your son, your mother and siblings. You wait for us to find the grace and resolve to let you go onto your next adventure.

In the case of my own fires, here's what I know about the last one: The last time I hugged you was on 8 December, 2014. It hadn't snowed yet in Ohio and it wasn't really cold enough to warrant a heavy coat. You hugged me close. 'I didn't think you would go back. I thought you would stay this time. But I am so proud of you, trying to make this marriage work.' You cupped my face and kissed my cheeks. 'But I also want you to know: you can always come home. Because wherever I am, you have a home.'

It was something we would say to each often, after an electric fight in Prague in 2001. 'I never know what you need, Rachel! You're too hard to figure out! Just tell me what you need! I just don't know...'

'I need you tell me I can always come home! That you won't keep sending me away. That I can always come home!'

And this became our way of cheer-leading one another, as we both twirled our a ways around the world.

And today? I know, I miss Peggy. Today, it doesn't feel like 5 years. Today, it feels like 5 minutes. Today, today, I still remember the smell of Peggy's forehead as I kissed her and I remember the flutter that filled the room when whatever it is that keeps a body in motion left what was left her still charred and seeping body.