Ashes

On the way to school, in the early morning light, we drive by a disaster.
Fire in the night has turned a once-house to blackened rubble.
A once-home.
Now piles of debris.
Possessions.
Now strewn about, mixed with mud and ash.
Smoke rises in isolated tendrils toward a colorless sky.
The mocking rain falls.
I wonder if the drops sizzle when they land.

A red shirtsleeve, bright against the black,
seemingly untouched, is tangled in charred rebar.
My heart hurts for the loss. For strangers who now have no home.

I take a picture so I won't forget how fragile things are.
I watch as a man paces the hot black floor.
His barefeet are black like the mounds around him.
He drops a plastic water bottle on top of a pile.
A pile of once-things.
Now ash.