[ 1 2 3 ]	We found our parents and each clutched a pair of their legs like koala bears, wondering if the Jones family was going to be alright. The gushing water spewed out from the fire hose, dousing the flames and eventually all that was left was the charred, soaking wet Jones house. When the firemen emerged, the adults in the crowd gasped, cried, called to G-d. We tugged at our parents’ pants to lift us up over the sea of people so we could get a glimpse of what was going on, but they refused and led us back to the house. Our parents wouldn’t tell us the whole story. Alex said they drank gasoline and blew themselves up, but Alex was always making up stories. Bobby said that someone flicked a cigarette into the pile of newspapers, setting the house on fire, and that he felt bad because it was kind of his fault. Johnny said that since Mama Jones was in such a daze, she probably left a towel on the stove or a curling iron on. We weren’t certain what to think, until we saw the newspaper. We each clutched one end with our tiny identical hands, sitting side by side at the kitchen table. We read that Mama Jones and her two sons were found lying in the children’s bedroom, holding each other, burned, but with traces of poison in their bloodstream. Self-arson was suspected and they were following up leads. We didn’t know what arson was at the time, or what they meant by leads, but we knew that wherever the Jones family was, that they weren’t struggling anymore. We also understood how they felt, losing a piece of such a tight, wholesome family. And with that, we looked at each other, like staring at a reflection in the mirror, and knew that unless we wanted to end up like the Jones family, we could no longer be joined at the hip. “That Jones Family” was published in PRAGUEmalion: An Anthology, which is circulating in the US and Czech Republic (2004)