Fires are burning down Los Angeles, and flattening Paradise too. Nearly five hours each way from both of them, I reflect in air full of the closets they organized by color, or the shoes they bought on sale. I breathe in bathroom walls and carpets that held game nights and tables that served Thanksgiving dinner.
The sky is discolored with particulate and remnant, vestiges of dream homes and photos, journal pages and cans of tuna from the pantry. The fire ended it. There is no more finishing the fence or saving to replace the blinds. Flames have rendered hours of creative meetings and marketing budgets and designers salaries futile as labels and magazines and product packaging combust. Particulate matter 2.5 causing the sun to glow hauntingly.
We are humbled by our sameness. To flames. Salaries, addresses, celebrity, and cars gone.
What is mine does not belong to me.
Rain is a foxhole prayer, but we pray it.