Fire alarm

I try to write a memory of my parents each year on the anniversary of their deaths, and I just realized I missed my mom’s deathiversary on June 16. Sorry, Mom!

When I was maybe 5 or 6 (it had to be earlier than third grade, because we hadn’t yet moved to the new house), I asked my mom what would happen if I slept through the fire alarm. I was sitting on the top bunk of the bunk beds that I did not share with my sister—I just really wanted a bunk bed, and my parents had kindly obliged. I had bunk beds to myself until I was well into high school.

Mom assured me that the fire alarm was much too loud to sleep through. Then she decided to demonstrate. She opened her mouth wide and began droning like a cursed banshee doomed to spend eternity on a cold rock in the middle of an endless, choppy ocean, her arms held above her head, fingers splayed, as if her body couldn’t contain the sound.

I screamed.

She was trying to help, of course, but bellowing at your small child is probably not the most comforting approach.

No permanent harm done. I’m not afraid of fire alarms—though I am still somewhat concerned I might sleep through one. Mom was always a light sleeper, but the apple fell miles from the tree in that regard.