Things We Lost in the Fire
A year in review
From time to time I still find myself wondering where a certain fuzzy sweater has disappeared to. Or a treasured book or the vintage Christmas ornaments I inherited from my first husband’s grandparents. My mind is blank. There’s a quick surge of fear: early onset dementia? And then the truth: It was one of the many things we lost in the fire.
Memory has a big place in healing. Forgetting what has happened to some of my possessions rather than continually mourning lost objects feels like a protection around my heart. Imagine what it would be like if every day all I could think about was how I lost my entire wardrobe, my collection of old illustrated children’s books, an entire family history in photographs. They’re just things, I tell myself, but within them there was also an identity. It’s a lot to lose. Perhaps it’s a gift that my brain’s first reaction is to simply wonder where that one pair of boots walked off to.
I’ve been thinking about the fire a lot this year. It happened in 2018, over 5 years ago, so it’s not raw or traumatic anymore, but it remains one of the most transformative events of my life. I think my husband’s cancer diagnosis–the more traumatic experience–brings a lot of residual sadness and questioning to the surface, as I imagine every loss does in a person’s life. They accumulate. You learn to live with each one as they come, and the pain might lose its edge, but the accrual can still be hard to carry. Harder to process with each pile on. Humans are incredibly resilient, but it makes me wonder just how long we remain so before folding in on ourselves or becoming bitter shells of who we once were. How do some manage to keep smiling?
As I was writing this, my husband received a phone call about a distant friend who just passed from cancer. No one even knew he’d had it. I think we all realize on some level that we reach an age where these calls happen more often. Our parents, then our peers, and then the unavoidable wait of our own. But yikes, it’s weird to finally arrive there. I have not yet lost anyone close to me, like the opposite of a curse. I wish I could continue to avoid it.
The close of the year is always a somber time for me, though I don’t know why. December is a month of celebrations for so many religions and cultures, as well as my birthday on the solstice, and yet I have never loved December. I enjoyed it most when my kids were little, more so even than when I was a kid myself, and I got to decorate the house in pretty white lights and spoil them for a day. I’ve always felt it more rewarding to serve than to receive, so being a mom on the holidays is where I am most comfortable. I even look forward to cooking for my young adults; I hope they know it’s a gift and not an obligation. And yet the month is just so…dark.
As a summary of 2023, I have very little Exciting Book News. I’m not on any impressive lists, no new contracts to announce, no exciting sales numbers. I did win a little award, which I’ll get to publicly post in February (and I’m praying that piece gets picked up by a traditional house), but as far as what most authors seemingly continually post, I got nothing. At least in that arena. In actual life, I successfully moved us twice, with the help of my sister and brother-in-law, to two different states. I got to rejoin my closest friends in New Jersey and Pennsylvania who I’ve missed a great deal. I was reunited with my river and my hometown. I’m living with my father and I haven’t murdered him yet. (Nor him I) I chose myself and decided to dive into independent publishing, which is turning out to be way more fun than I ever imagined. We’ll see the fruits of that labor next March. Fingers crossed.
And maybe the biggest “success”, I made it through the first year of my husband’s cancer—we made it through together—all while knowing it’s not the kind of thing that will be able to wipe our hands from. We got through not unscathed, but together, and I know that for many couples that isn’t the case and I understand why. Our love sometimes feels like the greatest accomplishment, and yet I don’t feel like I do anything to make that happen. It just exists.
It’s the one thing we didn’t lose in the fire.
Happy New Year, everyone. May 2024 bring us all more light.