The word “sifting” had taken on a new meaning for me, or at least in this specific situation.
My previous experience with sifting involved flour into cheesecake batter or powdered sugar over cookies, tasks I frequently performed in my cherished butter-colored kitchen. That kitchen, along with the rest of my house in Altadena, had been consumed by the January wildfires. Now, I found myself in a hardware store, searching for a KN95 mask, goggles, rubber boots, and heavy-duty gloves. Three weeks had passed since our evacuation. While my husband and others had gone back to assess the devastation, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do so. I had been staying at a friend’s parents’ house, managing endless calls with insurance companies and banks, all while attempting to maintain a cheerful demeanor for my 7-month-old son. But more than anything, I simply lacked the bravery to return.
Our house was truly unique. My husband had meticulously designed every aspect and furnished each room with his custom pieces. It was where we brought our first child home from the birth center in the early morning hours. I crafted recipes and photographed a cookbook in that kitchen, hosted numerous late-night gatherings in our comfortable living room, and even filmed a billboard advertisement breastfeeding my son on the kitchen island. That home contained so many memories and served as a sanctuary not just for us, but for everyone who visited. Even when you understand and genuinely believe that your family’s health and safety are paramount, the grief from such a loss remains profound. I might never have gone back, let alone sifted through the debris, if I hadn’t inadvertently left my engagement ring in my bathroom jewelry box.
One always believes such catastrophes strike others. They are events that affect a friend’s cousin’s best friend, distant by several connections. Tales passed down through hearsay, never directly experienced. That night we fled, our intuition somehow assured us that among all the imperiled residences situated beneath the Eaton Canyon mountain range in our distinctive corner of the world, ours would be spared. It felt like an unwritten rule, a natural order, though I couldn’t articulate why.
Our evacuation was prompted by an abundance of caution rather than an urgent need, following advice from a few neighbors and anxious friends who cautioned that a shift in winds could bring the fires towards us overnight. Mobile service had been inconsistent throughout the day, and electricity had been off for hours. Consequently, even with whispers of a fire starting across town, news of the intense ridge half a mile from our house hadn’t reached us. “Santa Anas” was the common term, but Los Angelenos are not easily intimidated by Ana’s gentle movements. We are accustomed to her power, and until now, she had proven to be more bluster than bite, powerful yet not truly destructive.
Thus, we departed with very little, illuminated solely by a candle’s dim light. A single suitcase, hastily packed in the darkness, served for the three of us. It contained a crumpled pair of sweatpants from the bedroom floor, the glossy black nursing bra from my nightstand drawer, a breast pump, three passports, our son’s recently issued birth certificate, two laptops, and a shabby old black sweater that had never brought me any pleasure. It was ill-fitting, pilled at the collar, and most emphatically–I must emphasize this–not an item worthy of being the sole piece of clothing I owned apart from those sweatpants.
During the subsequent days and weeks, mental images of lost possessions would frequently surface. These images were simultaneously welcome and unwelcome. Challenging to confront, yet each offered a small comfort, serving as a reminder of a life lived completely, courageously, and purposefully. While on our daily morning walk, a habit formed years ago that made me feel grounded and ready for the day, a sudden clear picture of my nightstand’s contents would emerge: a note from my oldest and dearest friend on the day my son was born, a strip of our very first ultrasound photos, and a collection of at least 17 forgotten chapsticks that I now longed for deeply.
Typically, I live with few regrets, preferring to focus on the future rather than dwelling on the past. Yet, during that period, one question persistently haunted me: What was I thinking? How could I have chosen to take my passport instead of my engagement ring? A disposable piece of legal identification over the emblem of my marriage, the most significant relationship in my life apart from the bond with my absolutely delightful son?
Driving down our street for the first time after its destruction, I felt an absence of emotion. Complete shock. A profound inability to grasp the reality. While I believed I had an idea of what awaited me, one truly cannot envision a desolate, scorched, house-free landscape until it’s seen with one’s own eyes. All of Altadena lay flattened, arid, and devoid of life. The scene was so inconceivable that it brought my rational mind to a complete standstill.
I proceeded directly into the debris. Subconsciously, I believe I sought to feel something, convinced that by immersing myself within the now wall-less confines of what was once my home, I would. In silence, I navigated through the structure, identifying melted, distorted fragments that guided my path. Through the garage, past the skeletal remains of my old Mercedes, into the kitchen where charred cast-iron skillets offered a sense of direction, and ultimately into our bedroom and bathroom, identifiable only by a collection of discolored but still coherent tiles that had previously adorned our shower. I knelt, daunted by the undertaking before me, and began to carefully clear away the ash.
And there it was. My engagement ring, cloudy, discolored, and flattened. It appeared within mere seconds of starting to sift, precisely where an intensely intuitive part of me had sensed it would be.
In the aftermath of the fires, I was flooded with demonstrations of affection. My husband transformed a moment of sadness into one of happiness when, during a mall visit to purchase socks because my sole pair had become stained and worn, he recalled our shared belief that a fresh pair of socks is life’s ultimate luxury. My innocently unaware son learned to drink from a straw, and immediately after mastering it, offered me a taste of his delightful juice. Within 24 hours of our departure, my brother returned to our still smoldering residence to retrieve any identifiable salvageable items, then cleaned them discreetly and stored them securely until I was emotionally prepared to accept them. A stranger messaged me, offering to deliver a bag of groceries and a quart of homemade lamb ragu.
I remained kneeling in the debris for several minutes, tears filling my eyes. Then, I placed the ring in my pocket and returned to my car.
I possessed all that truly mattered.
