The Day I almost Died

The day I almost died

was as hot as the hinges

on Death’s Door.

I can remember the sound of the wood

to this very day:

cackling while cracking,

being forced to magnify its friend’s need.

The enemy enkindled

at the base of the wood stove,

and came to my door,

and entered without invitation

with only one frame of mind:

to destroy everything in its path.

I didn’t hear the warnings.

I could only feel the pressing force of warmth.

It was not until I rolled over

that I could feel the true heat.

I opened my dream-powdered eyes

and smelled the dragon’s breathe

and knew of the bona fide danger. T

he unwelcomed guest that,

without my permission,

came to shake my hand.

I stumble off my bed

and my legs went for a boat ride:

up and down the waves of heat they went,

trying and failing

to support me as I stagger

through my burning possessions,

attempting to find the door.

That is when I heard my name,

my identity rapped in one word

The only thing I will ever answer to.

In the distance it gave me hope,

but the emotions are mixed

overwhelming sadness to think

that everyone else was safe and not me.

I pushed that aside and yell back.

But it was no more than a croak;

the fire vapors were choking me.

I remember choking, and coughing,

then screaming,

trying to help my rescuers find me.

I kneel,

 remembering what I was told:

“Smoke rises, your best chance is on the floor.”

I crawl about,

feeling my way around my room.

Being so low has its consequences:

my clothes catch fire

and I panic as the flames lick my skin.

I fight the battle,

but the opponent is winning.

It is burning with the intensity

to win that battle,

but the prize is

not land

or resources,

or even money;

it is my life. 

The tears of anguish,

of pain,

of want come to my eyes

and my world is blurred and burned.

The orange is mixed in

with the yellows and reds,

but the tears never reach my chin.

That is when I hear my name again,

but not from the same voice.

The caller’s voice

It sounds more like a cello,

and again, deeper this time.

I look up

and two men are standing in the smoke and debris

reaching out to me.

I extend my arm to grasp their outstretched hands,

but do not have the strength to do so.

I just look up at them

and see their expression turn

from encouragement to disappointed

Their eyes are mournful.

Then the one on the right crouches down

and takes my hand.

Suddenly I feel like I am lifted up

by someone with a leather coat.

‘This is the last thing I will ever feel.’ I think

And I see no more.

I wake up to a new kind of pain:

my new constant friend.

Then doctors and nurses rushed in

and I am suddenly poked and prodded.

So I glare at one of the nurses

and he backs away.

One of the doctors finally says:

“Okay, she is stable enough.”

Those words made me feel like a chair.

After everyone but the doctor is out,

he shuts the door and turns to me.

I can already tell his news is

not going to be all butterflies and rainbows.

As I suspected,

the doctor gave me some bad news:

only half of the original made it.

One hand was unusable

burnt beyond any hope of return.

I look at him:

astonished.

He also said that I did well;

to survive a burn like that

took a lot

almost a miracle.

I look back on that night

as I look at my hand,

burnt beyond repair.

It now bares my ring,

which is the only good thing on it.

The flames reminded me of starving dogs:

always wanting more never satisfied until controlled.

One the other hand,

they reminded me of the Evil One:

always wanting misery never wanting what is best.

This experience reminds me

of a poem by Robert Frost:

“Some say the world will end in fire some say in ice…”

My world was almost ended by fire,

but my mission is not yet over.