|◄ ► Firestorm • Grace H. Wever|
C.S. Lewis, a soldier in WW I`s trenches, captured the desperation of the times: “I am the bomb, the falling death.”* Aerial bombardments roiled massive stone foundations, while children, cocooned in half-lit bunkers, slept fitfully. The ensuing firestorms raged, consuming even noxious air. Breathless survivors surged upward, vaporized by the inferno outside. Tens of millions fled.
At the city`s outskirts, my husband, just ten, doused his home`s burning roof. We eventually met, married, and raised children with Old World traditions, trimming our yuletide tree incautiously with candles. Years thereafter I recognized the firelight reflected in his eyes as smoldering embers of those long-past firestorms.
*From the poem “Satan Speaks” in Spirits in Bondage; A Cycle of Lyrics
Photo by Jeff White Photography