writerfromva

Home. We’re home. I didn’t need to open my eyes. I knew we were home. I knew we were getting close. I had memorized the roads leading from the highway back to the house nestled in the little neighborhood I called home.

I watched news report after news report

broadcasting the devastation of

the Los Angeles wildfires

on national television.

There was a sense of

hopelessness,

like there was nothing

The lights

outside

burning into my skin.

The lights,

they're connected by strings,

each one

hanging onto the other

for support.

The lights,

The first time I saw her, she was clutching a sketchbook in her arms. It was very plain-looking with a black cover and golden spirals.

Every week at church, she carried that sketchbook. I never saw her without it.

Megan was staring out the window in the backseat of her mom’s minivan with a blank expression painted across her silent face. She shivered at the thought of spending her whole summer vacation at her grandma’s house.