Judy Frohlich

Last November, my husband and I were awakened by an explosion. By the time we got to the living room, it was on fire. Within moments, dense gray smoke filled the room and water poured from the ceiling sprinklers. I couldn’t see my husband, but I heard him yell, “Get out!”

Because of a defective lithium battery, we were out of our home for eight months, living in a furnished apartment while our condo was being taken apart and put back together. We had very little control over what was done; all our possessions were taken out of our home and either thrown away or cleaned and stored by strangers.

We ordered replacements for the items we knew had been destroyed, but it wasn’t until we finally moved back home that we discovered losses we didn’t know we’d had – the small things you don’t remember until you need them.

A few days ago, when boiling eggs, I reached for my favorite red plastic cooking spoon and realized it wasn’t in the cannister on the counter. The spoon had been my mother’s; it probably cost her less than a dollar. Mom died seventeen years ago and when I’d use that spoon, I’d often picture her stirring ketchup and grape jelly while making sweet and sour meatballs. But it was gone now, and a profound sense of sadness washed over me. I stood alone and adrift in my newly restored kitchen; it was the first time I cried since the fire.