Bloom

Ashes. Rubble. Twigs where mighty redwoods stood only weeks before.

I stand in the middle of a patch of charcoal that was once my room and stare at our melted mailbox, the painted images of flowers and our family name distorted by the sheer heat that consumed it. Over by the spot where my bed used to be—or at least where I estimate it used to be—there's a crumpled, rusted heap of steel that I think must have been one of my shelves. I kept a rock collection there, all sorts of cool little samples—gems, fossils, interesting little bits with folded striations. My favorite one was a tiger's eye sample that my science teacher in high school gave me. It would be impossible to discern sample from rubble now, of course, and I'm sure my collection will be whisked away to some dump when FEMA finally clears our lot.

I make my way to the living room—recognizable only by the perfectly intact chimney still standing there, seemingly untouched—listening and wincing as my shoes crunch bits and pieces of the roof as I walk. I think how beautiful the floor here used to be, a gorgeous latticework of walnut, cherry, and oak wood. We bought the house pretty cheap for the area, a real fixer-upper, and we didn't have the money for real hardwood, so my dad went to the hardware store and gathered up all the bits they didn't want. You know, those samples? The scraps that people take home to match with chairs and walls and whatever? Yeah, he made those things look like premium flooring. And it was free.

Now it's ash.

There was a piano in the corner by the window; I was the only one in the family that played it. It was given to me by my parents, actually, because they knew I loved playing. It was a baby grand, one of the real ones, a rare commodity in a house stocked full of off-brand and garage sale items. Every Christmas, my parents would set off a yuletide bomb in this room, with every inch covered by garland, lights, wreaths, stockings (for the whole family plus two dogs), and I would spend hours in that corner playing hymn after hymn, sometimes with others singing along, sometimes on my own just waiting for the sun to go down. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and I loved it.

Something catches my eye. I look down and see a charred sheet of music. The edges are singed and browned, but you can still see the title, notes, and everything. Claire de Lune. One of my favorites. Funny, though. This piece of music survived the blaze of over two thousand degrees, and yet the granite kitchen countertop exploded into a million pieces. I pick up the music and hold it close to my chest like a life preserver, the last shred of evidence of all my memories before the fire. All the home videos of my childhood, all of the photos, every trinket, toy, and trophy, all vaporized in twenty minutes.

Beyond the borders of our lot—it's weird calling it a lot now, no longer a house or a home—lies a field of devastation, hardly recognizable for what it once was. I had trouble finding my way here, to my own home, that's how unfamiliar it is. It's like a nuclear weapon has gone off, flattening everything in sight. Five thousand homes, gone, turned to smoke in just a couple hours. It's amazing to me how quick it all was. I was off at college, but my parents were still here. They woke up to the sound of the dog door flapping in the violent wind, stepped outside, and saw their neighbor's house on fire. They had minutes to escape, only enough time to grab the pups and one car each. My dad's car caught fire as they were fleeing, forcing my mom to turn around and rescue him before barely making it to my sister's house in the next town over. I think about the others who weren't so lucky, the ones who didn't wake up in time.

There were more than twenty of them. Their bodies are still out there. Mingled with the debris.

I drop to my knees and cry, my tears mixing with the ash and creating a dark gray paste on the ground. I don't know why I'm crying, really. My parents are safe, insurance will cover the rebuild, most of the things I cared about I took with me to college. And yet, I'm left with an empty feeling. A dark and ominous sense of loss. I stay kneeling for several minutes, my mother watching me mournfully from the car, somehow less affected than I thought she'd be.

Finally, I pick myself up and am about to return when one last thing snags my attention. In the back yard there's a small patch of green, a flamboyant contrast to the murky shades of brown and gray all around. I walk over to it and gently handle a single white flower that has bloomed by the back wall. We had a few different plants back here—bananas, figs, palms—most of which got cooked by the fire, and yet, somehow, despite the destruction all around us, this one plant made it through. The leaves are gone and many of the stems have been blasted away, but this one flower has made it through. For some reason that comforts me, more than anything else so far, more than the words of my family or friends or random strangers sending me their condolences.

I chuckle silently to myself and grin. I suppose if this tiny little plant can go through the very wrath of hell itself and still find a way to bloom prettier than ever, well then, just maybe I could do the same. I give the petals one last gentle tap, then turn and leave my home.

Tubbs fire - 2017

Coffey Park