It was as if we were the center of a fog machine appreciation parade. Thick, impassible, smoke rapidly filled our wailing lungs as he dragged me out and to safety. I hardly recall the scratchy smoke filling my lungs and painting my face with sweat, soot, and tears. For the time, I could hardly tell whether I was truly experiencing this or not. In a way, I shutdown to protect myself. This was happening to someone else. A different family was losing their house, a structure that was passed down between generations. There was no way it was me; I was still dreaming! I was asleep! The dead of winter had no effect on me, I was tucked away safely in my lavender room. My dreams were never about me. Who's child was this? Not me, surely. The child shivering the snow, watching a house engulfed in flames was anyone but me. Her sodden pajama feet and smoke-streaked face were similar to mine but the events played out so distantly that I was merely a spectator to watch her become void of expression. Dreams were never about me. Only this time, it was. .
As life continued in my grandparents' household, the maladies of my new life were solved as well by rendering myself unconscious. During the most stressful moments, I would sleep, knowing it would pass the time between when it occurred and when it was acceptable to no longer think of it. The daily stresses, resolved by slumber. The night before Easter, my grandfather passed away while we lived with him. Unfortunately, I was the one to find him in his stiffened state. He laid in his bed as if it was any other morning with a cigarette propped on the nightstand. He always smoked in the middle of the night. The household, packed with other inhabitants, mourned his death loudly, but none woke me. Upon hearing the news and seeing the lack of Easter celebration, I decided my place was not with the weeping adults. My place was silent, distant. I turned away from the drama and tucked myself in.