On Friday, 11/16 we were finally able to get back to the lake and to the remains of the house. Neither S or I slept the night before, the fear of returning to the ashes and the ruined neighborhood heavy on our minds. As we drove closer to the freeway exit, I think both of us felt panic. We were too anxious to even speak. At one point, I realized I was holding my breath and scratching my hand. As we turned off Kanan, we saw familiar hills blackened and dead. Paramount Ranch was no more, which caused tears to begin streaming down my cheeks. And then we began to see the homes, so many homes, gone, with nothing left but a chimney. Our little circle was almost completely devastated. All the homes on our side of the street burned, It was difficult to tell where one home started and another ended.
We drove up to our driveway, and noticed that the stair leading to our house appeared fine. In fact, two cheap Halloween decorations still remained on the steps, as did a planted with a succulent in it. But that was it–everything else that once existed on this earth was now ash, as if it never really existed at all.
We spent hours sifting. S was ready to leave after about 45 minutes, but I desperately clung to the hope that we might find something–anything, a trinket–that would serve as a sign, a token, a reminder of a life now altered.
It was a terrible process. Not only did we have to wear full suits, boots, N95 face masks, helmets, thick gloves, but we had to use shovels and other tools to even move items. The stench of smoke, burned plastic, and more was overpowering. The headache was immediate. Within the hour, an intense headache was pounding in my temples, and I felt nauseated. But I kept sifting.
Whenever I’d discover an area and recognize some small fragment, such as a piece of china, a vase, a frame, I’d start digging. We spent almost 7 hours sifting.
We were able to find a few tea cups that survived, although severely blackened and with pieces of other items encrusted permanently to their surfaces. I found my own piggy bank, black and sooty, with all the paint burned off. And miraculously S found my grandmother’s ring. I never take this ring off, and haven’t in more than a decade. But a few days prior to the fire I sprained my finger and I removed it as the finger swelled. How he was able to find it I don’t know. I took it as a sign that my grandmother was telling me there will be another day, that it would eventually be OK.
When we left that afternoon, we both knew we would not be returning to sift. All that survived didn’t even fill an entire shoebox.
I felt numbed by the experience, yet I knew I needed to do it. It still feels surreal, like a bad dream that one day I will wake up from and be able to go home and snuggle my girls on our couch under my favorite blanket. Or see my favorite painting while I eat breakfast at my lovely wooden table. Or browse through my girls’ baby books that we had so lovingly written in since they were born. Knowing I won’t be able to do that with all the things that reminded me of home and my family is heartbreaking.
From the Ashes 