Ash

Our mountain rescue team got a callout to help with the Eaton Fire recovery operation. It wasn’t really recovery because there wasn’t much to recover, and I’m not supposed to talk details or take pictures, but I did put together some words because that is how I deal with shit.

I wasn’t supposed to take pictures, but I made an exception for this fucking survivor

Ash

Sift through the fragments of those who

left their lives behind seeing what

didn’t burn, small things that poke through

A picture frame, a small bike cog, a porcelain teacup

and the head of a doll

It all feels like a violation

some line that shouldn’t be crossed

While the buddhist says

don’t get attached

And I hold tight to these things

more important than passports

or tax records or computers

The bunny keychain

a gift from my youngest

Worn pants that are too tight

and cut with memories of

sharp Joshua Tree granite

A note that says good luck

I love you and a smiley face

written with small fingers unsure

A shell polished and pulverized by

smooth rocks that smells like salt

and sunrises and the early morning surf

Through the grey and black, I see a bird

a statue of a peacock who turns its head

and stares at me and we share wonder

I poke the fire rake through books

that collapse into dust piles with a touch

When memories turn to ash

I would grab the clarinet scales

and the muffled sound of Mozart

finding me through the crack between

the door and the tile

I would take the feel of a small hand in mine

gripping tight, trusting, and not wanting to let go

as I open my hand and see that faint

white grey mark left on my palm

And the smoke in my clothes

I will hold them close

dirty used unwashed

Breathing deep and pushing them against my nose

until

the smell of smoke slowly fades