I watched Mom, after the fire, crying, crying br The fire had destroyed our old Victorian home br A house that held treasures and many memories br I still see the old attic, where I played with dolls br br The house stood, in the night, just a shell, gone br In a circle of neighbors, tears were long shed br My Mom sent a pray to God, for saving our lives br I still see my old room, pretty pictures on the wall br br The days that past were long, waiting, waiting br We stayed with Grannie, in her very old house br In the attic, I made my new nest of imagination br I still see the dust and the cobwebs, the oval window br br Days later, Mom sat on the floor, surrounded br With photographs, all tattered, burned and burned br I came beside her and picked one up, looking br It was my sister at Christmas(she died at six) br br I looked at Mom, as tears fell, falling, falling br Don't cry Mommy, we will fix them up, you'll see br Into the kitchen we went, for Grannie's big scissors br Me and Mom started to cut, we cut to keep memories br br Many photographs, of our ancestors, destroyed br Water soaked and burned beyond any hope of repair br But some were just burned at bit, and there was hope br We cut away at the photographs, hoping for a face br br Today, I am looking at old photographs, tattered br I keep them in a special box, that I visit sometimes br They have odd shapes and some have burn marks br I go to the photographs, when my soul needs repairbr br A Rambling Poetbr br