Smoke Signals

Paying attention could save your life. I'm here to tell you.

Stock image. Yeah, no. I didn’t stop to snap one in the midst of my private hell.

I. The Tears of Fear

In the sixth decade of my life, I find myself weeping over a new appliance. A microwave. Stainless steel gleaming under the kitchen light, buttons waiting like obedient soldiers.

Who am I, and what have I become?

I like nice things now. And by “things,” I mean appliances—cold machines, without human emotions, designed to sit and wait until you need them. Then they perform, on demand, with precision. Exactly as you want and expect.

But to understand why my eyes leaked over circuitry and steel, I must confess the backstory. The shame. The humiliation. The dirty little secret: I almost set my kitchen on fire.

II. The Siren Song

It was Friday evening, the kind that promised rest after a week of corporate demands. I had groceries, I had plans, but I also had Taco Bell.

The neon siren called me: cheap, easy, fast—and I answered.

“Hey, Girlie,” the pink and purple glow seemed to whisper. “I’m right here. I’m easy. I’m fast.”

I laughed at myself, ordering tacos like a teenager, then drove home with the paper bag of shame.

III. The Beer and the Bag

Groceries unpacked, fridge stocked, I cracked a beer. Dinner could wait. Beer #2 followed, and with it, hunger.

The bag sat there, innocent. I slid it into the microwave. One minute. Thirty seconds too long.

IV. The Devil’s Tongue

Flames. Real fire. The devil’s tongue licking the inside of my appliance.

“Idiot!” I screamed at myself, as acrid smoke filled the kitchen. My cat bolted upstairs, tail puffed like a bottlebrush.

I tried to blow it out. Wrong. Slam the door. Kill the oxygen. Unplug. Drag the whole fucking mess outside.

My heart raced. My hands shook. My kitchen reeked of smoke and shame.

V. The Aftermath

I stood on the deck, staring at the smoldering bag, the blackened microwave. My breath came in ragged bursts.

“Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.”

I repeated it like a prayer, like a confession.

I was lucky. Lucky to be right there. Lucky it was only smoke and embarrassment. Lucky my house still stood.

And then I thought “Oh my God, my boys. I preach safety to them. Was I ever busted. Oh, the horror. I’d never live this down.”

VI. The Redemption

So today, when I unwrapped my new microwave, I wept.

I wept for what could have been, and for what wasn’t. For the reminder that sometimes survival comes down to seconds, and that even cold machines can feel like salvation.

This wasn’t just about convenience. It was about redemption. About the quiet gratitude that comes when you realize how fragile life is.

VII. The Lesson?

It is a reminder of humility: that even seasoned adults (and yes, Moms) can make rookie mistakes.

It’s gratitude: for second chances, for cats who flee to safety, for houses that still stand.

Emerson once wrote: “The years teach much which the days never know.”

On that Friday night, the flames taught me what the years had been whispering all along: that joy can live in the ordinary, that survival is sacred, and that sometimes even a microwave can make you weep.