Dear Mom,

I wish you were here.

The trailer next to mine caught fire last night.

It was horrific. Not only the fear that was as catching as the flames, lighting the night sky, but the smell. It's a terrifying way to wake up in the middle of the night.

The lady who it belonged to was able to get out before it went up like a torch, but she has some bad burns on her hands.

The firemen helped me move my trailer out of the way of the fire, and then the lady asked me to bring her son to the hospital.

It's strange seeing tears in a stranger's eyes as she begs you to care for her child. I suppose I've left myself open to all sorts of lawsuits, but how could I say no? I don't think the medics wanted him in the ambulance, so I packed him into my car.

I'm glad he was old enough to not need a car seat because I wouldn't have even known where to start with it.

I've been parked in an RV campground near St. Paul, Minnesota for a few days now, but I'm nowhere near familiar with the city.

It took time to navigate the streets to the hospital, and I’m glad I kept my spare notebook in my car since I’m still at the hospital.

Hank, the kid, is probably eight or so. He’s been very quiet, just looking around with his big eyes. He did curl up and sleep for an hour or so, and I put my coat over him so he wouldn’t get chilled.

He also got hungry around seven or so this morning, so I got him some food from the hospital cafeteria. They had a surprisingly good spread. Hank didn’t eat much and I don’t know if that’s normal for kids or if he should eat more.

I can imagine deep in my soul what he's feeling and it's taking everything in me to not pry into his emotions. He already seems a little uncertain how to respond to me, but a few minutes ago he pulled a little dinosaur toy out of one of his pockets and has been quietly playing with it.

At one point he looked up at me seriously and said "This is a Triceratops. Sometimes grownups get it mixed up with the Styracosaurus, but the Triceratops only has three horns."

I still can't believe he could pronounce Styracosaurus. I only can because I heard him say it and looked it up. There are so many more dinosaurs than I was aware of, and it's not like I've never had an interest.

He hasn't engaged with me since then, but glances up every once in a while through his blond bangs. I think his mom should be out in a few minutes now and I'm relieved. He seems like a good kid, but that doesn't mean I feel up to taking care of him for much longer.

If I'm being perfectly honest, I need sleep desperately. As desperately as a single girl who is not a mother and doesn't have a job can.

I'm not trying to complain. At least I didn't lose my trailer too, or sustain injuries.

My main concern once I'm able to give Hank back to his mother is whether I should tell Dad or not. It seems like this might be one more thing for him to worry about and that feels mean. But I know you would have been furious if something like this happened and I didn't tell you.

But Dad isn't you and I'm really not sure what the best course is.

I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish you were here to help this poor woman know she's not alone and help this poor kid know his mom is going to be okay.

I miss you so much and feel so alone in this sterile place without you.

I love you,

Bo.

There are some things I can't put into a letter to Mom, even if she won't ever read it.

I can't say that the stark white walls and linoleum were like a fever dream I couldn't escape. I couldn't even let myself freak out because then no one would have been there for Hank, and he really needed someone to be there. I was able to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes while a very kind lady in scrubs kept an eye on him.

The walls were closing in on me and I sat on the floor, which I know was disgusting, and forced myself to think of the ocean, waves rolling in, the sand shifting under my feet as I stood there just a few months ago. I imagined the sea gulls screaming at each other over scraps and the pungent smell of the bayfront all fishiness and clam chowder.

After a few minutes I was able to open my eyes and see only the bathroom instead of the glaring white it had been before.

I can't tell Mom about that. I could never let her know her death has affected me this way.

I also know the real answer to this is therapy. Very few people can navigate the trauma of their lives on their own. We weren't made to deal with things like this, much less alone.

For now, Hank is curled up next to me. His fingers are busy with his triceratops, but his head rests against my arm, and every once in a while he reaches up and touches my hand like he's reassuring himself I'm here. A fierce protective feeling rises in me every time he does and I'm half frightened, half charmed by the thought these are motherly instincts. I'm glad to know I have them.