I've escaped so many burning buildings throughout my life. A marriage, friendships, lovers, jobs, poverty. Looking back, I spy charred landscapes, the ashes and bones of past feelings and ideals. So familiar, yet far away, to my immense relief. I am not Lot's wife, turned to salt by her longing. Here I am, writing, a survivor. After all, I'm the daughter of refugees, thrown from inferno to inferno, before they found their feet, to reach some semblance of home. Hope I am still a survivor, after another decade. May I never need to flee another disastrous spark.




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