Fire

Is this LA's 9/11?

Yesterday was my birthday and it sucked.

I was thinking about Andy’s birthday. We had no idea that two days later he would be diagnosed with metastatic cancer. We had no idea it would be his last birthday.

The boys gave him a card, and I gave him three books I thought he’d like: “Astor: The Rise and Fall of an American Fortune” by Anderson Cooper, because he liked books about old money families; “Starkweather” by Harry N. McClean, because he liked true crime; and “The Field of Blood: Violence in Congress and the Road to the Civil War,” because he liked history.

Now he’ll never read them.

I always made him a birthday cake, but I did not for his last ever birthday because he was unable to eat. He was still recovering from the throat cancer treatment (but the cancer, we thought, was gone). The recovery was brutal: his throat burned most of the time, and while he could force small pieces of food down, he was on a mostly liquid diet and losing more weight than he should have been.

He said I could make the cake once he recovered, and I promised I would.

Usually he asked for the white on white buttermilk cake with Jack Daniels frosting from Rebecca Rather’s “Pastry Queen” cookbook. It’s a white cake that’s not too sweet with a little tanginess from the buttermilk. The frosting is rich and mostly butter. And the frosting is always a challenge, no matter how many times I make it, because it involves using a candy thermometer to get the sugar/water mixture at just the right temperature before mixing it into the whipped butter. Most of the time I get it right, but twice I had thermometers that were off and I had to start over with a new box of butter.

So honestly I was slightly relieved I didn’t need to make a cake, since it was time-consuming and difficult and because my friend Sofia was in town and I wanted to spend time with her.

I wish I’d made the cake. Maybe he could have tasted a tiny bite, even if he couldn’t swallow it.

And then there are the fires in Los Angeles.

It feels like 9/11 except the terrorists are fires and climate change.

I’m not in LA, but I think back to 9/11 and I remember seeing a fire truck the next morning with ashes trailing behind it, and I imagine that is happening in Los Angeles too.

I remember the burning smell that lasted for weeks, and though that smell was more acrid than the smell of wildfires, I know the wildfire smell lingers and sticks to your clothes and permeates your home, like the 9/11 smoke did. I know that the images will stick with all who witness the destruction for the rest of their lives. I know the fear that it might happen again, that the next one may be worse and closer to home. I know how the shock can put you on autopilot, carrying on with your day as normal in hopes that it makes it normal.

I know I am doing that a lot these days, and not because of the fires.

Anyway, it’s late. I need to sleep. I have the luxury of being able to sleep without the fear of waking to a mandatory evacuation. I can let the wind lull me to sleep because it’s not a danger here. I can sleep on the couch, next to the fire safely trapped in the wood stove.

I’ve been sleeping in the living room for the past couple of nights. I need to move some things out of Andy’s room so I can move my things into it, but it’s been difficult and I can only manage so much at a time.

So tonight I’ll sleep by the fire because it makes me feel warm and cozy, even as I watch the fire and think how its counterpart is ruining the lives of Los Angelenos.