My family was safe. But grief over objects both precious and mundane continued to manifest in strange ways.
It was a Tuesday. I had taken the day off to fight the sniffles and accompany my daughter for her first day of preschool, taking as many photos of her as possible. Later, while my son was napping in his crib, I participated in a virtual yoga session with a friend from my living room.
I stretched for a few minutes, then my internet connection gave out. I saw a warning symbol on my computer’s WiFi bars, but our service was generally spotty, so I didn’t think anything of it. My grandmother was on the couch, her glasses threatening to slip off her nose as she looked at her phone. None of us could see the fire in the veranda a few feet away.
My husband ran into the living room and told us we had to leave. I assumed something had happened with our daughter and we needed to get her back. I mirrored my husband’s panicked energy, ran to get our little boy and left through the garage. My husband didn’t stop in front of our car, so neither did I. Then I saw the flames.
My husband, Dominique, and I have been birding casually since we met. It’s not a formal hobby: we don’t have binoculars, we don’t know the scientific names. We just tap each other on the shoulder and say “look!” » or nod your head in the direction of magic. Early in our relationship, we spotted a hummingbird lingering near a lantana tree we purchased at a nearby farmers’ market. He took a quick photo of the bird, its wings quivering. The photo quality was terrible; we would have had a better chance of capturing a vampire. Large male cardinals were hopping right outside our kitchen; we looked through a large window. Now the fire came out of that window, the front door opened from the heat, and I knew my old life was over.
In a hushed tone, the fire marshal called it a “total loss.” But that couldn’t be the case, because my vinyl collection – my grandfather’s heirloom – was in there. My children’s Christmas presents were there. My grandmother’s purses with secrets inside. Ultrasounds of our children. My husband’s clothes that he received from his grandparents, one of whom passed away. None of these things could burn, could they?
My teeth are gritted, but I can bear it because I know my alliance was successful. It must have survived, because it’s gold. Let me in so I can search the rubble. Please.
We would never go home again. It was bulldozed in early September.
I came across Target an hour after the fire. What is an essential element? I need underwear. How many pairs? We need toothbrushes and toothpaste. A box of tractions and wipes. It’s not enough to last…how long? Permanence gradually took hold. I wondered how I was going to tell my 4 year old daughter. She was making a paper bag puppet at school, while Mom was teary-eyed and lost.
A group of teenagers made fun of my husband’s shoes, not knowing that he had just bought them and that they were now his only pair. They also didn’t know that he had saved his family’s lives, since he had spotted the fire first.
Over the next six months, the impact of the fire hit me in waves. I knew everything was gone, but the details of “everything” were coming to me more slowly than I would like. I was thinking about “The Color Purple” and remembered that my Alice Walker autograph had been lost. Walking past a Steve Madden heel reminded me of the stilettos I bought for celebrity panels and award shows. I won my first career-related award last year. I must cherish the moment and not the plaque because its pieces are in a landfill somewhere. I was at Target buying clothes for my kids when I walked past their vinyl section. I gasped, let go of my shopping cart, gripped the bar again, and kept walking. I didn’t know who I was without my stuff.
My daughter’s recurring question: Mom, why were you crying at night? Because our house caught fire?
Long before the fire, I was struggling to reconnect with myself after giving birth twice in three years. It was like trying to hold my own balloon strings on a humid and disrespectfully windy day. At work, I found it difficult not to define myself by my production. I have long tried to be a self that exists beyond my service to my family and my productivity. As a mother, I’m always faced with a jumble of needs, and as a career woman, a jumble of wants. How do you take care of your body when so few things look like you?
We lived with my in-laws for two months. I kept waking up in a bed that wasn’t mine. The sheets, the smells, the stairs, none of them belonged to me. I almost jumped when I came home one day to a house full of thick fog. (A humidifier was left on.) The smell of a heating oven had the same effect. In those moments, I screamed and remained barefoot. We’ve all heard the quotes that home is “a state of mind.” They sound really good.
Being at the mercy of others was painful. There I was, a working woman, accepting money, kindness and space from others. I felt like a gnat on my nose. I wasn’t supposed to be in this position. House fires made it to the news, not to me. Anger took over. We should have been better prepared! Why didn’t we have $100,000 in reserves? Did I need these plane tickets last year? Why the hell did I buy these shoes?
And then it was someone’s fault. It was karma. It was something other than life.
When Dominique and I arrived at the place we now call home, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It looked like the brick houses near my elementary school: warm and not mine. Looking back, I wonder what the locals did to earn these fabulous homes, while our family of five lived in a one-bedroom duplex. Practicing law or running a business, probably. Some of them may have just been born.
I’m not a lawyer and I don’t own a growing business. In the end, it didn’t matter. The house has been on and off the market for a decade and the sellers were ready to let it go. Our offer was quickly accepted.
May was cold. I constantly lied to myself. The recordings slowed down, I suppose because my unhappiness was no longer hot and I wasn’t talking about hard feelings too much. When I could communicate with my peers, I talked about pain in the past tense. I thought I was supposed to be done suffering, and people encouraged it. I had the money, I had the house, my kids were getting ready for daycare. The boxes were checked and the paper was thrown away. But there is no start or end date for grief. You have to feel everything, without boundaries or expectations. My feet were tarred to the ground as life moved on, as it does. I was frozen in fear and agony, watching my first home die every day.
The search for new vinyl brought a subtle relief. Even if I walked out of a store with nothing, the minutes spent fingering worn blankets were mine. When I found a gem, like “Carpenters” or Aretha’s “Amazing Grace,” I felt a private, personal pleasure. The only record I repurchased from my previous collection was “Talking Book” by Stevie Wonder. The album’s closer is “I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be Forever),” a song about hope after heartbreak and a sweet new love that will go the distance, God willing. It begins with the gloomy “Broken dreams / Worthless years / Here I am trapped in a hollow shell,” but by the end, Wonder is on the other side of the funk and ready to invest once more. Even though his wounds were still visible, he had the courage to feel again. Like him, I fly again after the failure of my life. My belly full of life and my smile are growing.
The carpet imprinted my knees as I ironed my emerald cotton halter dress on the floor. Our housewarming party was supposed to start in a few hours and while I technically couldn’t be late, I wanted to look presentable by the time the first guest arrived. Smiling relatives arrived, carrying candles, paper goods, books, napkins and kitchen utensils. I rushed up and down the stairs for hours, tending to the needs of participants and their babies, answering questions about the process, flipping through Chaka Khan’s “I Feel For You.”
I slipped outside and watched the kids splash around the inflatable pool. The birds were numerous and comfortable – noisy too. I took advantage of the goodness of the moment and shaped my body to fit it. A part of me has been restored. I will repeat the process until I am new.
