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...