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Firestorm
• Grace H. Wever
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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 |
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