Shhh! Scribbler at Work

Burnout

(prompt: 'chaos' 25/5/2018)

If you couldn't see it... and worse, still smell that unmistakable stench, you'd think nothing was wrong. The silence near-deafened us as the stars shone even brighter than usual in the crystal clear sky. Crystal clear sky now, I thought, and freshly brimming eyes created a new deluge, just when I'd been sure I was drained.

"The shed. And everything in it... EVERYTHING! Gone. But I can't believe our little Missy cat too? Not her. I can't stand that," and I started shuddering and sobbing and buried my face in Kanute's shoulder.

"I know, darlin'. I know." His face was grim as he comforted me through his own pain.

Seemed a lifetime ago the car had roared into our driveway and a stranger jumped out to scream out the dramatic, unwelcome news we were totally unaware of, supposedly safe within the thick stone walls of our farmhouse. Our large farm shed was on fire.

Another lifetime, and our driveway and yard were the scene of unimaginable chaos. Firemen and great fire-fighting trucks (five of them at the peak of the blaze), hoses snaking across the ground every which way, with water pouring into the towering inferno. The sounds were terrifying - explosions of paint tins and farm chemicals, and the near-human groaning of our tractor and other farm machinery dying; of the great steel beams supporting the roof giving up the ghost and joining all beneath in a twisted near-unrecognisable mass.

Impossible to pick out one smell from all that was being consumed that gorgeous summer evening, when there was luckily not a breath of wind for even one ember to drift to our beloved old home and the henhouse with our feathered girls - or the paddock with our beef herd and their year's fodder.

Even as I registered the loss of our Christmas cupboard with more than 40 years of my handmade seasonal crafts and heirlooms AND precious kiddy decorations and cards, I still grieved even more for our little cat.

Had to call again and again... with no response. When I finally turned away, chest heaving and eyes streaming again, I thought I heard a MIAOW. Wishful thinking. You have to accept it. She's gone. But still, I strained my eyes and ears - hope against impossible hope. And still I called in an increasingly choking and faltering voice.

And suddenly, there she was, racing from the thicket of trees on the far side of the house to jump into my arms. And now dogs and cat alike competed to lick away our tears. And laughter rang out again, all mixed up with purrs and whimpers and excited barks. And birds started singing again, though it was dark now. The sounds of relief maybe?

We couldn't celebrate this night, nor for a long time afterwards as the losses became more apparent. Still today, we can absently think of something we haven't used, or even seen, in a very long time. Our eyes meet, and we nod sadly. "The fire," we say. We know how much we have to be grateful for - how much we didn't lose. And yet...