Infinite degrees of separation
This house down the street from us burned down Sunday night. Amber and I were headed back home from the video store and were cut off by a fire marshal turning toward our home. It kind of made my stomach churn.
We parked and walked up to where we could see the fire was engulfing someone else’s home. As we stopped in the front yard of some people I’d met once before, a woman approached from a side street and let out the most soul wrenching wail I’ve ever heard come from another human being. Panic doesn’t begin to describe the sound. She couldn’t find her husband or her children; you don’t make that sound over lost things. I still don’t know if she ever found them.
When I was growing up, my little town of Vicksburg, Mississippi maybe had 15,000 people in it. As odd as it may sound, even in a town that size you at least tangentially know everyone. You may not know them by name, or by face, but six degrees of separation easily collapses into one or two.
But here in Memphis, I didn’t know these people. I wish I did. They lived less than a quarter of a mile from me for the past year and I don’t even know their names. At the time, I was pretty sure I’d talked to the ladies husband once while out on a walk, but now I’m not even so sure of that. I wish I could be sure. I wish I could offer them some bit of solace or support, but I can’t.
Then again, I’m not sure anyone can.
We parked and walked up to where we could see the fire was engulfing someone else’s home. As we stopped in the front yard of some people I’d met once before, a woman approached from a side street and let out the most soul wrenching wail I’ve ever heard come from another human being. Panic doesn’t begin to describe the sound. She couldn’t find her husband or her children; you don’t make that sound over lost things. I still don’t know if she ever found them.
When I was growing up, my little town of Vicksburg, Mississippi maybe had 15,000 people in it. As odd as it may sound, even in a town that size you at least tangentially know everyone. You may not know them by name, or by face, but six degrees of separation easily collapses into one or two.
But here in Memphis, I didn’t know these people. I wish I did. They lived less than a quarter of a mile from me for the past year and I don’t even know their names. At the time, I was pretty sure I’d talked to the ladies husband once while out on a walk, but now I’m not even so sure of that. I wish I could be sure. I wish I could offer them some bit of solace or support, but I can’t.
Then again, I’m not sure anyone can.
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