I’ve always loved fire. In middle school, I had a very juvenile identification with it, deeming myself a “fire” person to the exclusion of all other elements. My archaic Yahoo ID is still “firebird” and some numbers, like the Russian legend. Sometime in high school, the police, a park ranger, and several fire trucks caught my friend and I in the middle of the night, talking over a small fire we’d made in a metal plate. It was an inexplicable and sometimes embarassing fascination, and I think it defined many of my childhood memories.

My great-uncle’s apartment caught fire soon after my birthday. My great-uncle and great-aunt burned to death along with their spouses. It’s incomprehensible to me. I cried when my dad told me, and an hour later, awkwardly, during the mock trial team’s victory dinner. People were nice. I suppose I must be reacting normally, though it doesn’t feel that way. I keep telling friends about it, in response to innocent questions of are you okay, which probably isn’t fair, inflicting this random tragedy on them, too, it’s hug extortion, but it becomes more real every time I say it.

My mom got a visa in two hours and flew to Moscow as soon as she could. I wish I could go to the funeral, too. I used to have such a disdain for rituals, but I could use one right now. I spent today Photoshopping pictures for the funeral, finding even that small ritual comforting. I don’t know how to deal with this.

It’s surreal. Today I went to class, took notes, turned in an essay. It seems stupid to keep caring about things like that, about class. I feel like my rationality has been jarred loose.