In the half light

I keep dreaming I’m home, in my own bed. Half awake in the half light of dawn, imagining a solid murky pink wall to my right, the perfect cool temperature to press warm legs against at 2am. A solid bed, and a solid floor and a solid life wrapped around me.

And then I wake, a little further, and there are windows surrounding me, and I’m high up, and there’s no comforting hum of electricity running through the walls, or the glow of a nightlight through the hallway. No one likes a pitch black house. Or a pitch black bus, temporary living, are you going to rebuild…

Life really can change in an instant, and we say this, as a prayer, as a psalm, mostly in hope of good things coming for us (a lottery win, a new baby, a good decision) but here we are, our lives changed in slightly more than an instant, a long hot burn through the dawn light, coals, embers, fire retardant in my hair, my elderly dog trying to hide in the coals, waiting to see if we could find the bodies of foster kittens.

And then thrust into real life still – trying to talk to insurance at 7am, but there’s no phone numbers, why are there no phone numbers? An online application, but I can’t find my ABN, and the grass is wet, and my feet are wet, and my heels are bleeding and my daughter can’t breathe – but what do we DO? What do you even DO.

Watching everything burn in the half light, when the unreality hasn’t fully set in, when you might still be dreaming, hope you’re still dreaming, except you’ve got covid – you’ve all got covid and surely no one dreams of ash in their mouth, ash in their eyes, covid filling their lungs along with smoke and desperation.

(what do you even DO)

And then three months later, trying to process everything, keep the family together, keep the teenagers brains functional, move us forwards forwards forwards, because there’s no going back.

Maybe insurance is ready to settle, but we’re in that half-light/half-life of waiting for them to call me, because there’s a notification saying “your claim has progressed!” all cheerful, but this is still merely the beginning. Three months later and we’re still at the beginning

(what do you DO)

Day to day, minute to minute sometimes, and people count the costs, count the dollars, like that’s what matters. Like I can’t still taste the ash in my mouth, the frozen horror in my heart.

“but at least you get…”

no thank you. i do not want it. i just want my life back.

…

(with apologies to Jen Buxton, Linc LeFevre, and probably Deb Talens)