Gone. All gone. In the blink of an eye, a building, a business, homes: gone. A broken leg, broken dreams. All in the blink of an eye.
We were headed to a friend’s home for a Labor Day party. We were just in the car when my wife realized she forgot something so she went back into the house. I turned the car around and when I looked up, I saw a pillar of thick black smoke rising into the bluest of skies just a block away. We hurried over to investigate. More black smoke, then bright orange flames. A building was on fire. A man was climbing out of a window onto a porch roof. We called 911. The heat was intense; the fire was spreading fast. Everything was about to change forever. All in the blink of an eye.
First responders, volunteer firefighters, EMTs: all there in the blink of an eye. They would wrestle the flames, extinguish the blaze, do everything they could, but the damage would be done. Somehow, no one would die, but many lives would never be the same again. All in the blink of an eye.
For the rest of the day, I think I was in shock. I couldn’t erase the images from my mind’s blinking eye. The look on the man’s face when he realized he would have to jump down from the porch roof; the owner of the new pastry shop desperately punching numbers into his cell phone. The heat of the flames, the pall of the smoke, the helplessness and the sorrow. A bright sunny afternoon suddenly turned to midnight black. All in the blink of an eye.
A good friend lives in a lovely apartment in the building adjacent to the one on fire. We called her to tell her to get out, but she didn’t answer. (She called back later to report she had been evacuated and was safe.) I couldn’t stop thinking about the fragility of this eggshell we live on, how everything can change in the blink of an eye. One minute we’re heading over to celebrate Labor Day with friends, the next we’re watching disaster unfold in real time. I couldn’t shake the shock—still can’t, to be honest. It’s hard to write this, really hard, but I want to tell you about it if only to remind you to be thankful for what you have because it could all be gone in the blink of an eye. You just never know.
Miraculously, no one died in the fire. Lives will be altered, but everyone survived. And aren’t we all survivors of some disaster? Maybe not a raging fire, but something just as devastating and life-altering. Existence is minute by minute. A tumble in the night, a pot left on the stove, a patch of ice or a tiny spark and suddenly everything is changed and rarely for the better.
If there’s a silver lining to this story, perhaps it’s this: count your blessings and put them in a place for safe keeping because someday, in the blink of an eye, you may need them.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives with his wife Kat Conley on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. He is the author of three novels: “This Salted Soil,” “The Tales of Bismuth,” and “The People Game.” His fourth novel, “The Secret Communion of Redheads,” will be released later this fall. All his novels are available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads, and many other platforms. His website is musingjamie.net or visit jamiekirkpatrickauthor.com.