A day after I moved to stay at my son’s house, when I had just woken up, my grandson was already standing right next to the bed, gently shaking me and saying: Grandma, you should find another place to live. Follow me, I will show you.’ I was startled and hurriedly followed him.
The smell of smoke still clung to my clothes three days after the fire. I stood in what used to be my living room, staring at the charred skeleton of my piano, the instrument where I’d taught my son Michael to play “Clair de Lune” when he was seven. The fire marshal said it…
