As the fire trucks screamed down the road heading toward the burning house, she ran out to the curb hoping to flag down at least one. Her house was quiet — neatly cut lawn, roses adding a touch of red to the picture. Quiet. Clean. Her block a model of stability.
She could smell the fire, the burning wood. It was faint, wafting in from at least two blocks away.
“Stop!” she screamed. She waived her arms. The trucks whizzed past. Police cars raced past. She kept waiving.
“Why won’t they stop?” she said.
A reporter pulled up. He’d heard about the fire on the scanner, but was intrigued by the woman. Perhaps there was a story here, he thought.
“What’s the matter.” he asked.
“Why won’t they stop?”
“The firefighters?”
“Oh, my house,” she moaned. “My house, my house!”
“Is it on fire?”
“No.”
“A burglary? Were you attacked?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand,” the reporter said. “There’s a house on fire down the street. Surely, that house is what matters.”
“Surely,” she said. “The burning house matters. But all houses matter. All houses matter.”
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Hank Kalet 