In September, Greenville Ohio, a ten year old boy started a fire in his family's duplex.

The fire killed his mom and little sister.  Not content with two lives, the fire leeched into the neighbors home and devoured the life of three little souls.  Their mom escaped.

The ten year old pyromaniac lost his step-dad to AIDS last summer.  There is no mention of his biological dad.

The single mother next door, who lost her three children, moved into the duplex from a homeless shelter some time ago.  I'm not judging but I have questions.  How does a mother escape and leave three children to burn to death?  Was the fire so hot and right outside her door she didn't have any choice?  I have to believe it was so.  What about the two adult friends she let sleep over who also escaped?  Did they think to check on the children before running out into the night to escape the smoke?

Three children.  THREE.  Three little lives, with little fingers, little feet, and bellies full of laughter.

It's tragic.

It's razor edges and odd angles and won't fit into a "Don't want to think about it" box in my head.

A judge is deciding if the ten year old boy is competent to stand trial.  Stand trial for murder.

How can a ten year old stand trial for his life?

I think of my son at ten.  He was mature for his age.  He knew fire hurts and could kill, but the whole dying concept didn't mean a lot to him.  He couldn't always be depended on to bypass his desire for pleasure over the consequences to other people.

Whether the kid is sent to jail for the rest of his life or not, he's as dead in most ways as the children fire devoured.  The ashes of his future just haven't blown away yet.

The fire happened in September and people aren't really talking about it anymore.  Seem almost resentful when an article runs in the paper with updates to the case.

Some think the public's attitude is racial.  The families were poor, the single mother had three black children, and the white widow's dead husband was a black man with AIDS.

Me.  I think it has more to do with the box in people's heads.  The box which gets closed, taped up, and stored in the cavern of forgetfulness with the million other boxes just like it.  It's not comfortable to brave the stacks and pry the box open to put in new information.  It reminds us there are things hidden away in dark places, things we can't focus on and maintain our sanity.  Things the cavern must devour as surely as the fire devoured the lives of those children.

Ten.  Years.  Old.

What to do?  What to do?