The Fire: Epilogue, Part 1

Just as seeing the destruction of the fire on television differs from seeing the ruins up close, experiencing the "they lost everything" in words is completely different than acknowledging it in real life.  

"They lost everything." Not just the beautiful home, the lovely grounds, the art on the walls, the gorgeous furniture, that bathtub, that kitchen, the vineyard. But until today it wasn't brought home to me that they lost everything else: their favorite socks, their pajamas, the cookbooks they had from grandma, the copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" and their Teddy Bears.  The incidental things, like the perfect chef's knife, the little lemon squeezy thing, those really nice bath towels, the sweatshirt that was so old but so cozy, a small glass owl that someone gave them so long ago, a bar of olive oil soap, some favorite shampoo, all those spices they brought back from Italy. They turn to take a saute pan off the wall and that motion is no longer worth anything.  The wall and that pan are gone. They look up to see the framed photo of the kids when they were in the pool at their parents house, but nothing is there, the photo is gone, the wall where it was hanging is ash. The house is ash. 

Jenn said today in answer to a question from me: "Just buy Liz something. She has nothing now." I had not thought of that word and that meaning.  Nothing. Not a thing. Nothing of her life from before October 8 exists anymore except her husband and her daughter and they are so glad to be alive. 

Today I spent 4 hours researching what Liz's family paid for things in the house that no longer exists except for ash and rubble. In the end, the family is fine, they have a nice rental house. But think about it: it's getting cold, you open that familiar drawer and pull out a scarf, you open a different drawer and pull out warm socks, you take your Le Creuset cast iron casserole and set it to warm so you can make soup, you glance up and see that painting you bought in Bruges for a couple of dollars 20 years ago.  But all of that is just memory. None of that exists now. You have no scarf right now or warm socks or a cast iron casserole, a painting. It's all memory. But as Liz said, "you can't think about it, you have to look away and cry for a while and then look ahead."  

Wow. Think about it, close your eyes and think about every single thing being gone. Think about it.

xo.