Fire

The sound of a gate to a chain link fence clanged shut. Imagine my irritation at the sound of someone crumpling cellophane in the middle of the night. “Whasat?” I said. A moment later, a faint scent of smoke made my eyes explode open, entirely awake now, “Call 911”, I said to my husband. I grabbed my glasses and scrambled to the screen door. The moon was high, and I could see the faint dancing white glow of fire behind the back fence, as though a child was playing with a flashlight—shadows and then light. “Call 911, there’s a fire on the greenbelt.” I tore down the stairs, slipped on my clogs, and raced out the back door. Once I reached the back of the garden, I unlatched the gate, and lifted the pin. The gate swung open.

The heat of summer had flattened the once tall riot of foliage of weeds into a flat mat of straw and scattered foxtails. The fire crackled in the dry grass, and jumped and flashed as it consumed small pockets of weeds. The smoke, once wispy, started to swell into puffy forms and rise into the sky. Unfurling the hose, I shot a long stream of water along the edge of the fence; and the fire hissed and backed away. An ember leaped into the air, trying to jump the path, but landed on a patch of hardened dirt—dying a quick death. A faint siren sounded.

I kept shooting water at the fires edges, willing the fire to not run away; and the fire started to die. Footsteps sounded down the path. The fire was almost out. One man took the hose. Others used shovels to turn dirt on the smoldering embers, and smashed them like bugs. My husband and I stood and watched while they finished. “Shit”, I though, “I looked like hell.” One fireman found a smoldering cigarette. “Do you smoke, ma’am?” “No”, I said, “neighbor’s kid.”

Kindred Spirit

That’s what the slim strip of paper in the fortune cookie said. “You will find a kindred spirit”. I was relieved to know that I, too, like Anne of Green Gables, would soon have someone bonded to me heart and soul. Someone to share every small irony; someone who would know what I was always thinking, and not think the worse of me; someone who would not think me insane for relishing bizarre thoughts at inappropriate times.

I tucked the small prophecy in my pocket, and we left the café.

The next day I set off on my usual travels to work, expecting a serendipitous moment at anytime—it could be anyone, anyone of the people I meet, or see, or work with during the day. But I didn’t leave the building all day. Nothing happened. There was a time, I thought, just a moment when someone in the elevator snickered at one of my better sarcastic comments, then nothing.

When the day was over, I sat on the sofa and asked the family dog what I should do, and she just looked at me. She is old, and deaf, and almost blind. She has survived the kids, survived breaking free, getting lost and then found, tolerated eating things she shouldn’t have, spent endless hours in the garden digging and sniffing about, slept and snored in the mound of covers on the bed; but her look let me know, without a doubt, that she thinks I am her kindred spirit.