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GLASSWORKS
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Illegal Fireworks Destroy Oakland Home In Fire by Ha Kiet Chau

7/1/2024

1 Comment

 
East Bay Times—July 5, 2021
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Photo by Adam Wilson on Unsplash
Hot flashes of hell. Orange, bloodred flickers. Ba on a stretcher, ruminating, how this could have happened, his splendid nhà, his American dream, lit, poof, gone. Ma on the curb, in silent retreat, reliving old traumas, fears. The three of us on the sidewalk, homeless, shoeless as flames swell through the stairs, the rooms, the roof, torching the ceiling of the sky.
 
The firemen and police, the neighbors and culprits, the sirens and wailing. Horror burns like incense, hurts skin, flesh, bone. I pray for water, rain, relief. In times of crisis, shadows and figures appear, halos and orbs gliding towards us, calming chaos. Among the dozen faces and bodies, I recognize my grandfather kneeling in front of Ba, healing him from anguish, soul shock.
At dawn, the sun is confirmed dead. Loss is heavy, eerie, foreign. Shoveling mounds of debris, oak, and rubble, I locate pieces of ruined porcelain—the head of Buddha, decapitated. I am learning how to mourn without tears the way my parents did after losing their home, their belongings in the Vietnam War, escaping by boat on hazardous seas, displaced and separated in refugee camps, immigrating to America with nothing but hope.

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Ha Kiet Chau is the author of two poetry collections Eleven Miles to June (Green Writers Press 2021) and Woman Come Undone (Mouthfeel Press 2014). Her writings have appeared in Ploughshares, Asia Literary Review, Empty House Press, New Madrid, and Columbia College Literary Review. Her YA novel in verse, Darling Winter, is forthcoming in 2024. Find Ha on Instagram @sweetpoeticsoo
1 Comment
Robin Hampton
9/9/2024 03:23:15 pm

I rarely speak of this part of my history, but I have lost my home to fire twice. The first was when I was three years old, in Baldwin Hills. It was early morning, and somehow my parents managed to get me out just in time. We became homeless, moving from one place to another, with no relatives to take us in. We eventually found a place in an apartment, but my parents' marriage did not survive. It seemed to crumble, reduced to nothing but ashes by that first fire.

The second time was in the Oakland Hills fire. We drove down Manchester, then Broadway Terrace, and finally Broadway, never to return to any semblance of a home. Twice, I’ve lost everything. As a result, I have become averse to moving. I cling to stability with a fear that borders on obsession. I never leave the house without first unplugging toasters, coffeemakers, or teapots, as if these small, mundane appliances might be agents of destruction.

Returning to those places has always been thwarted by changing circumstances. To move on, I have had to sever ties with those memories, yet I remain vigilant, almost obsessively so. How does one reconcile such repeated devastation? The fear that I might lose my home again is a constant, Sisyphean dread. I build a place of safety, only to watch it crumble, as though my sense of place and security is perpetually at the mercy of forces beyond my control.

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    FLASH GLASS: A MONTHLY PUBLICATION OF FLASH FICTION, PROSE POETRY, & MICRO ESSAYS

    COVER IMAGE:
    ​"Topography in Tiny C and MicrosweeT" 
    Ivan Amato
    ​ISSUE 27


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    Mariana's Headstone
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