The audacity of some people. Our gas stove had way too many buttons and in search of the right one I lit the wrong stove top which in turn set my sleeve on fire. In blind, white terror I felt someone else take control of my body and take me over to the sink, running cold water all over my sleeve to put the flames out. But it was too late, and the room had already filled with the putrid smell of burning fibers, my sleeve gently smoldering in the after flames. I might have heard the smoke detector beep somewhere in the distance, but it could have been those chicks hatching as well, immediately needing me. Suddenly she was six again, watching her mother from the corner of the kitchen, baby fat legs stretched out against the cold tiles of the floor, her Barbie dolls spread around her like an army, she, the general. The room was eerily dark, with a spring thunderstorm just outside the window, threatening the strength of it with loud claps of thunder, the only light provided by candles. I could imagine what it was doing to her. I gave her a big hug and she sobbed on my shoulder. I helped her out of her clothes, except for her panties, and into the bed. I removed my clothes and crawled in beside her. We spooned as she cried herself out. I scratched and massaged her back and felt the tension slowly ease from her. It soon became clear that she had fallen asleep and I thought that was just as well. It felt good to be next to her. We didn't have to have sex. She needed rest and unconsciousness more. I awoke in the morning to a tiny hand shaking my shoulder. Claire's four year old daughter, Moira, held her finger to her lips when I looked at her. "Aunt Cathy, I spilled the milk," she whispered. I threw on her mother's bathrobe, accompanied her to the Kitchen, and cleaned up the spill. She was making cereal for her and her sister. Claire came in as I finished and smiled sheepishly at me. "Sorry." "Don't be. You needed to decompress." The rest of the morning was a little.
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