The constant flicker of a loose light bulb, hidden behind the almost clear glass seemed to capture my attention more than anything; the wooden desk and plastic chair suddenly seemed like an adequate place to take a nap. My eyes became heavier and heavier as my second grade teacher dragged on and on about some subject I didn’t care enough to listen to. I felt myself looking at the clock over and over, only to see that just two minutes had gone by each time. This day couldn’t be any slower and it couldn’t be any more mundane. I sighed to myself, just waiting.

My teacher stopped in the middle of her instruction-giving to answer to the office that was calling. Of course, the class used that short time to start up ten of their own small conversations. I, being the quiet, ‘doesn’t-talk-unless-talked-to’ kid, sat still and silent. I tried to listen to the half of the teacher-office conversation that I could pick up on. She hung up the phone and naturally the class hushed.

“Zoie, you need to go to the office with your things. You’re being picked up,” She said.

Confused, I picked up my things and made my way to my locker. Ordinarily, my mom would tell me the morning before if I would be leaving early. I hoped that whatever this unplanned phenomenon was wouldn’t keep me from my regular Wednesday visit to Grandma’s house. I made my way to the office with my backpack after making a journey to my locker. Some of my friends noticed me in the hallway.

“Hi Zoie. You’re leaving? See you tomorrow.” They’d say. I smiled back and agreed. I’d see them tomorrow, or so I thought. Little did I know, it’d be quite a few days before I’d return to school. Not because I was sick, or injured. Perhaps either of those would've been easier to come back from. I expected to see one of my parents to be there to take me home, but my aunt was there. I didn’t understand but I smiled to her. I didn’t think much of it when she didn’t return the smile but grabbed my hand and led me quickly out of the building. I struggled to keep up but didn’t fuss. Step after step, I became agitated with the fast pace and the lack of explanation. I asked,

“What are we doing?” I figured the reasoning to be that we were late for an appointment or something of the sort. The last thing I expected her to say came out of her mouth, words that would give me an indescribable feeling of discomfort in my stomach

,
“Grandma’s house is on fire.”

♥

I miss her. Of course, I miss her. She was my best friend. The only thing that made it easier was the fact that she went peacefully. She didn’t suffer, she didn’t feel it. She was asleep and it was instant. When the oxygen tanks exploded, the ones that were connected to her through thin, clear tubes up to her nose, she went with them. I remember the smoke being all I could see. Thick, black smoke. Every person within miles standing around, the entire block was filled with people. In the back of my nine-year-old head, I knew there was no way my grandma was still in there. I knew there was nothing anyone could do anymore, that I’d never see her again. But it wasn’t until my mom found me in the crowd, her tear stained face and messy hair, that I was able to process it. She bent down to sit at my level.

“She’s gone, Zoie.” Was all she could choke out before she was crying harder and I was hysterical, falling into her shaky arms. I could easily say that March 18th, 2009 was the worst, most tragic day of my life. I know she watches me though. I know she’s still looking out for me, she has since that day.

Months before, she’d bought me a small train. Only instead of cars, the train was made out of wooden letters on wheels, that were connected by magnets on each side. When they were put all together, they’d spell my name. That’s just one of the many things that meant something to me that I’d never see again, or so I thought.

Weeks after the fire, my parents went into what was left of the building, falling apart and so dangerous that the only reason to go inside was to find anything that could’ve survived. Just because the insurance company recommended it. Doubtful that there would even be a book or picture that wasn’t burned beyond recognition, it was an astonishment to find only one thing. My “Z”, the first letter to my train. The only thing that could be taken out of the remains of rubble and ash, it was for me. It wasn’t a coincidence to me. She saved it for me, left it for me so I’d know she was going to watch out for me. Wherever she might be now.

I still have that “Z”. It sits on the dust-covered shelf in my bedroom, it still smells faintly of ash and fire. But that memory is replaced with the good ones when I look at it. I see it and remember everything she meant to me, everything she still means to me. Everything I want to be, for her. My grandma was a magnificent woman, and as much as I miss her I know her not being here is something that strives me to be better; to be a person she’d be proud of. She, and everything that came with her being in my life, is what made me who I am today.