Scorched Witness

I vaguely remember that Rosh Hashanah night. At six years old I was entirely preoccupied with my Yom Tov finery: mirror shiny patent leather shoes, new dress with the lingering scent of the clothing store. I hardly noticed my younger sister, quick as a thief, climb an imposing dining room chair and lean in to the trembling flames of the New Year.

Was it her screech of shock and pain that caught my attention? Do I actually recall her dress alight, remember my race to summon Daddy, terror nipping at my heels? Or was it a story told and retold until, emboldened, it declared itself a memory.

Years later, at ten years old, I’m alone in my parents’ room hunting through my mother’s dresser. In the furthest recesses of a bottom drawer my fingers brush soft cotton: it is a toddler-sized dress, jagged brown scorch marks peering out like sightless eyes.

Why has my mother held on to this garment? Flushed with guilt, I finger the mottled white fabric, yearning to rewind the clock and rescue my sister before her curious fingers are blistered by fire. Although her burns were superficial and quickly salved, I still burn with remorse for neglecting my role as her savior.