ZingSync

I didn’t know our house was on fire until I got to the street. I stood in bare heels on the concrete, a dry scream on my lips, hot tears pooling at my chin. I held my toddler son, his eyes still adjusting to the sun’s light. He was born in this house, the one that was filling with flames.

It was a Tuesday. I had taken the day off work to fight off sniffles and see my daughter off for her first day of preschool, snapping as many pictures of her as possible. Later, as my son napped in his crib, I joined a virtual yoga session with a friend from my living room.

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I stretched for a few minutes, then my internet gave out. I saw a caution symbol over my computer’s WiFi bars, but our service was typically spotty, so I thought nothing of it. My grandmother was on the sofa, her glasses threatening to slide off her nose as she looked down at her phone. Neither of us could see the fire in the sunroom a few yards away.

My husband jogged into the living room and told us we needed to leave. I assumed something had happened with our daughter and that we’d need to pick her up. I mirrored my husband’s panicked energy, ran to get our baby boy, and left through the garage. My husband didn’t stop at our car, so I didn’t either. Then I saw the flames.

My husband, Dominique, and I have been casually birdwatching since we met. It’s not a formal pastime — we don’t have binoculars, we don’t know scientific names. We just tap the other’s shoulder, say “look!” or nod in the direction of the magic. Early in our relationship, we spotted a hummingbird lingering near a lantana we’d bought at a nearby farmer’s market. He snapped a quick photo of the bird, its wings quivering. The photo’s quality was awful; we’d have had better luck capturing a vampire. Fat, male cardinals would hop just outside our kitchen; we’d watch through a large window. Now fire licked out of that pane, the front door blew open from the heat, and I knew then my old life was over.

In a hushed tone, the fire marshal called it a “total loss.” But that couldn’t be, because my vinyl collection — my inheritance from my grandfather — was in there. My children’s Christmas presents were there. My grandmother’s purses with secrets inside. Our children’s sonograms. My husband’s clothes that he’d gotten from his grandparents, one of whom is deceased. None of those things could burn, right?

My teeth are grit, but I can take it because I know that my wedding ring made it. It had to have survived, because it’s gold. Just let me in so I can go through the rubble. Just, please.

We’d never go inside our home again. It was bulldozed in early September.

I stumbled around Target an hour after the fire. What is an essential item? I need underwear. How many pairs? We need toothbrushes and toothpaste. A box of pull ups and wipes. That’s not enough to last for…how long? The permanence incrementally settled in. I wondered how I’d tell my 4-year-old daughter. She was making a paper bag puppet at school, while mommy was bleary eyed and lost.

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A group of teen boys laughed at my husband’s shoes, not knowing that he’d just purchased them and that they were now his only pair. They also didn’t know that he’d saved his family’s lives, as he’d spotted the fire first.

For the next six months, the impact of the fire hit me in waves. I knew that everything was gone, but the particulars of “everything” wafted toward me slower than I’d like. I’d think about “The Color Purple” and remember that my Alice Walker autograph was lost. Walking past a Steve Madden heel reminded me of the stilettos I’d bought for star-studded panels and awards shows. I won my first career-related award last year. I have to cherish the moment and not the plaque because its pieces are in a landfill somewhere. I was in Target shopping for clothes for my kids when I passed their vinyl section. I gasped, let go of my shopping cart, clenched the bar again and kept walking. I didn’t know who I was without my stuff.

My daughter’s recurring question: Mommy, why were you crying at night? Because our house got fire?

Well before the fire, I’d been struggling to reconnect with myself after giving birth twice in three years. It was like trying to hold on to my own balloon strings on a humid, disrespectfully windy day. At work, I struggled to not define myself by my output. I’ve long tried to be a self that exists beyond my service to my family and my productivity. As a mom, I’m always a mess of needs and as a career woman, a mess of wants. How do you maintain your core when so little feels like yours?

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We lived with my in-laws for two months. I kept waking up in a bed that wasn’t mine. The sheets, the smells, the stairs — none of them belonged to me. I almost jumped out of my skin when I came home one day to a house full of thick fog. (A humidifier had been left on.) The smell of an oven warming up had the same effect. In those moments, I was yelling and barefoot all over again. We’ve all heard the quotes about home being “a state of mind.” They sound real good.

Being at the mercy of others was a pain. Here I was, a working woman, accepting other people’s money, kindness and space. I felt like a gnat on a nose. I wasn’t supposed to be in this position. House fires happened on the news, not to me. The anger took over. We should’ve been more prepared! Why didn’t we have $100,000 in reserves? Did I need those plane tickets last year? Why the hell did I buy those shoes?

Then it was somebody’s fault. It was karma. It was something other than just life.

When Dominique and I pulled up to the place we now called home, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It looked like the brick houses near my elementary school: warm and not mine. Thinking back, I wonder what the inhabitants did to earn these fabulous homes, while our family of five lived in a one-bedroom duplex. Practice law or run a business, probably. Some of them may have just been born.

I’m no lawyer, nor do I own a booming business. Ultimately, that didn’t matter. The house has been on and off the market for a decade, and the sellers were ready to hand it over. Our offer was speedily accepted.

May was cold. I lied to myself constantly. The check-ins slowed, I assume because my misfortune wasn’t hot anymore and I wasn’t talking about the hard feelings too much. When I could connect with peers, I talked about the pain in past tense. I thought I was supposed to be done hurting, and people encouraged it. I had the money, I had the house, my kids were preparing for day care. The boxes were checked and the paper was tossed. But there’s no start and end date for grief. You must feel it all, without border or expectation. My feet were tarred to the floor while life had moved forward, as it does. I was frozen in fear and agony, watching my first house die everyday.

Looking for new vinyl brought subtle relief. Even if I left a shop with nothing, the minutes spent fingering worn covers belonged to me. When I did find a gem, like “Carpenters” or Aretha’s “Amazing Grace,” I felt a private, personal pleasure. The only record that I’ve repurchased from my previous collection is Stevie Wonder’s “Talking Book.” The album’s closer is “I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be Forever),” a song about hope after heartbreak, and a sweet new love that’ll go the distance, God willing. It starts with the somber, “Shattered dreams / Worthless years / Here I am encased inside a hollow shell,” but by the end, Wonder is on the other side of the funk and ready to invest one more time. Even if his wounds were still visible, he had the courage to feel again. Like him, I am flying again after the grounding of a lifetime. My belly, full of life, and my smile are growing.

Carpet imprinted my knees while I ironed my cotton, emerald halter dress on the floor. Our housewarming party was set to start in a few hours and although I couldn’t technically be late, I wanted to look presentable by the time the first guest arrived. Smiling loved ones filed in, bearing candles, paper goods, books, towels and kitchenware. I rushed up and down the stairs for hours, tending to the needs of attendees and their babies, answering questions about the process, flipping over Chaka Khan’s “I Feel For You.”

I slipped outside and watched the children splash around the inflatable pool. The birds were plentiful and comfortable — loud, too. I took in the moment’s goodness and molded my body to fit it. Some part of me was restored. I’ll repeat the process until I am new.

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