It's been two weeks and three days since my house burned down.

In that time I have been to work three days.

I hate work. I hated it before the fire. And now it just takes the smallest thing to set me off. I fuss at the kids. Sit down. Stop talking. Stop looking at me. Stop breathing.

All I need is the smallest excuse to stay home.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe from thinking about thinking about the house and what I think I can still save.

I still think I can save things.

I hate the way people are looking at me at work.

"Look, it's her, the one who lost everything."

People ask me what size clothing I wear.

They ask what size my daughter wears.

I say, "We are fine, really."

But really, we are not.

She cries a lot, my daughter.

I have nightmares.

I have one pair of shoes.

She doesn't want to be left alone.

I don't want to be left alone.

Our little green house is gone.

I want to take her away somewhere.

Just anywhere else.

Where there is nothing to think about saving.