Smoke. I watch the flames entrap the place that I once lived. That I grew up at.
I remember how this happened? Or do I?
I stare, my hands gripping onto the metal of the umbrella. Sweat covers them, and ash falls down from the sky. Landing on me, and showering the ground like a snow storm. Dying the grass, the sway I see. Don’t be fooled by my descriptions. They say that pointing out everythi...