The scent of barbeque, thick and cloying, clung to the air, a grotesque parody of summer. Somber, I watched the smoke plumes claw at the sky, a cancerous bloom above Brentwood. Our zone, they said, was safe. The LAFD, a distant, faceless voice of assurance, echoed in the silent Subaru as we made an escape. But safety felt like a fragile promise, whispered against the roar of an approaching fire.
Everything that mattered, everything we called essential, was packed. For me: five days of clothes, the balaclava a weird comfort, journals spilling with words, pens poised for stories yet untold. My camera, headphones, hard drive—gateways to other worlds. The cold, official documents of my existence: birth certificate, naturalization papers, passport. Then the small, personal rituals: face wash, lotion, makeup, the familiar scent of rosehip oil. And a teddy bear, a link to childhood comfort. A discreet butt plug and vibrator, a whisper of intimacy in the face of chaos.
Bixie and Kloe’s world was distilled to kibble, dental treats, bone chews, and the comforting weight of their beds. Kloe’s tiny sweater and pajamas, a testament to our care.
Kyle, a whirlwind of practicalities, grabbed his PS5, controllers, and a stack of Pokemon cards—childhood treasures. His wallet, crammed with plastic, and the weighty documents of adulthood. Contact lenses, face masks, Invisalign cleaners. The everyday necessities: deodorant, toothpaste, floss. Then the unexpected: thirty-one doses of Viagra, a defiant nod to future possibilities, even amidst the ashes. His suits, a symbol of order in a world teetering on the edge.
Together, our hiking journal, riddled with trailheads and peaks now being engulfed by the wildfires. A king-sized blanket, a portable air mattress—the makings of a temporary haven. Instant espresso and oats, a comfort against the unknown. All the wires, a tangled promise of connection.
It all fit: one suitcase, two backpacks, two totes. Snugly, in the Subaru. The twenty-minute drive from Brentwood to Downtown Los Angeles, usually a blur, stretched into an eternity. We arrived at my sister’s house feeling both precious and profoundly vulnerable.
The second day, the fire raged closer as we watched it roar on the tv screen. Despite the curfew hours, we returned home to gather more things, to gather more of ourselves before the fire devours them. We moved with a frantic purpose, beyond essentials. Kyle’s guitars, a resonant memory of his late mother’s shell collection, his father’s precious gemstones. I gathered more clothes, books—my silent confidantes—and the tools of my craft, the witchcraft that grounded me. Fifteen minutes, that’s all we allowed ourselves. Fifteen minutes to sever ties with what might be lost forever.
We decided that renting a storage unit in Huntington Park would bring a distant safe harbor. As we drove, I pondered the arbitrary nature of value. Why these things? Why not others? What makes us cling to material objects as if they were passports to the next life? The next life, I called it—a new beginning, forged from the ashes. Eight days into the new year, and already, everything was new, born from the rubble of the past.
It was too many things, really. Material things, imbued with our identities. My books, ninety percent saved, each one a conversation, a memory. Where I bought them, who I was with, where I read them, who I read them with. They held fragments of myself, echoes of others. My clothes, only ten percent salvaged. A whole rod of them still hung in the closet, having served their fleeting purpose. New fashion awaited.
The difference between a book and a shirt? Both mass-produced, replaceable. Yet, one held an intangible weight. I thought of those who lost everything. The things the wildfire devoured, the stories it erased. And in that somber reflection, a flicker of hope: that even in loss, we would find a new narrative, a new beginning, stripped bare and ready to rebuild.