When a House Burns Down

When a house burns down,

the fire is not just flame.
It is the law, the decree,
the invisible match struck
by hands that never walked our floors,
never sat at our tables,
never heard our stories.

When a house burns down,

it is not only timber that collapses,
but the rhythm of mornings—
the smell of tortillas warming,
the father’s boots by the door,
the child’s backpack leaning on the wall
waiting for tomorrow.

But tomorrow does not come,
because tomorrow is held hostage
by paperwork and borders.

When a house burns down,
it is not the fire alone that robs us,
but the separation it enforces:
a mother left behind,
a father taken away,
children holding photographs
like fire extinguishers too small
to save what matters.

When a house burns down,
neighbors come running with buckets,
but no one can douse
the flames of policy.
No one can smother
the crackle of absence
that eats through generations.

When a house burns down,
questions rise in the smoke,
Who decides whose love is legal?
Who counts the cost of birthdays missed,
bedtime stories silenced,
grandmothers who die alone?

When a house burns down,
the ashes carry names—
names written on deportation orders,
names lost in detention centers,
names whispered across phone lines
because visas expire
but grief does not.

When a house burns down,
you can stack new bricks,
raise new beams,
but the old walls still haunt—
their shadows cling to us,
their echoes remind us:
a house is not walls and nails,
it is blood and belonging,
it is memory and mercy.

And when a house burns down,
a family learns to live scattered,
like embers blown by the wind—
still glowing,
still aching,
still searching
for a land
that will call them 

home.

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