Fires, ashes, etc

There’s nothing to write
There’s everything to write
The words are caught somewhere between the smoke and the screams and the silence

The neighborhood is gone
The fire took it all
We’re told our block is one of four miraculously still standing

(I don’t know what to do with that information)
(I am so grateful)
(I have paralyzing survivor’s guilt)

And also I know that with my kidney disease it will be a very long time before we can actually live in that house

So many homes and structures gone
15,000 acres burned, the toxic chemical and organic fumes still in the air and likely in the fibers of our house (which thank god we still have)
Professional cleanings will need to be done
New furniture will likely need to be purchased

If I think about it too much I worry I’ll relapse

(I don’t know how anyone who actually experienced any loss can write about these fires)
(Maybe I’ll write about it when it hurts less)

We are in Oakland now
We ran out of the house and drove to Anna’s for the night
Early the next morning on doctor’s orders I used every Jewish-runner bone in my body and drove for 10 hours until we hit cleaner air

We are with my nana

(The one bright spot of this whole thing is seeing her, aunts, uncles)
(I bake her challah for Shabbat, José cooks a feast)
(We get much needed blessings)

We barely sleep
I cook her the meals we would make in our kitchen

Yesterday, after a trip to Berkley Bowl in which the good people of the Bay politely moved around the two zombies formerly known as Talia Billig and José James, I attempt to make pesto

(Usually a custom recipe of mine)
(My custom recipes live in a custom book that the world’s greatest husband had made for me)
(Not on the list of “must have”s when you’re fleeing for your life)

I can’t remember my pesto recipe from the book

And somehow that’s what breaks me
José tries to find a new recipe online

(But)

I hear a primal little me wail that she just. Wants. Her. Book.

Her book, her home, her perfect, perfect neighborhood
One of the only ones in the country that wasn’t redlined
A little paragon of what America could have looked like
Diverse, kind, loving
A delicious slice of optimism

The little home at the foot of the mountains where I thought we could finally, finally rebuild

Sandcastles, spiderwebs

The first time of many in the past 5 years when the universe turned our life upside down (COVID), José and I started a ritual
We lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling if it all gets to be too much

Say nothing, cry if we need to
(We usually do)
Eventually I turn and lie on his chest and listen to his heart beat. He holds me.

Nana’s kitchen ceiling was a good ceiling to stare at yesterday

(I don’t know how anyone who actually experienced any loss can write about these fires)
(Maybe I’ll write about it when it hurts less)

In the time between typing the first sentence this morning and typing this sentence airbnb sends us a $1000 credit
An angel couple in Van Nuys opens up their guest house to us

(Things are like that now, there is no plan, I go minute to minute)

So we’ll drive back tomorrow, I suppose
To the ashes and the screams and the silence
We’ll assess our little home at the foot of the mountains where I thought we could finally, finally rebuild

See just how bad it is, make the “plan” for the next few minutes

We are alive, we are safe
We cry a lot but we have each other’s arms when the tears come

The thing that makes me cry so much more than the loss is the human kindness
The couple whose home we’ll be in in Van Nuys for the week
The front desk guy in San Francisco who upgraded our hotel room after the 10 hour drive because he said we needed a bathtub
The strangers offering help without hesitation

I hope someday we’ll be able to be that for others, but for now I try to absorb it wherever I can.

(More next week, if I can stomach it)

t