We’re moving into the new house today.
It’ll be memories returned and reframed, all right. Boxes and sweat and standing on the outside looking in.
Mom and I both smelled smoke for the first time in months yesterday. We smelled it for ages after the fire – some strange psychological combination of it searing our nostrils and our minds just supplying it in moments of stress – and yesterday, we both smelled it again standing in the doorway of the new house wondering if this one would last.
I’ve been collecting snapshots from July 18 to remember what happened. It seems important, somehow.
- The initial news report that I reread over and over again at 2am in Florida waiting for my flight home, trying to make sense of what had happened. My mother was irritated at being called “his wife”, since technically she’s a homeowner as well.
- Video One of the damage.
- Video Two of the damage.
- Video Three of the damage.
I watch those videos even now and I barely remember filming them. I’d been going on 50 hours without sleep and my house was a warzone. Even then there was a need to document every last sensation, to honor it. I suppose the impulse remains even now when I chose to start a blog.
I’m very excited for the new house. But I want to remember the old one, too. Even when it trembled and fell in front of me.