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As we hurtled back down the freeway towards home, pine trees swooping by the windows in broad streaks of brown and green, the sky grew progressively more sickly, a dully colored gray-brown laid down in thicker and thicker layers as we descended in elevation and inched closer to the valley called home.
The smoke settled in great sheets over the sky and everything else, blotting out the sun, shrouding the landscape and filling me with an unsettling feeling of dread.
It-the smoke and my dread- only intensified as our phones, coming back into signal for the first time in a week, shrilly dinged with an alarming cadence. What was wrong? I wondered. Also, it turned out, wildfires had broken out like a thick rash up and down our state, searing and obliterating places, homes, lives.
Places that I held dear in my heart, places I had visited with a pilgrimage-like regularity since childhood, suddenly rendered unfamiliar, scorched and barren, smudged out in charcoal.
I shifted in my seat, and realized that I had been unconsciously holding my breath, my body tensing as it prepared to accept another layer of grief onto an already thickly spread canvas; an impasto painting I did not care to look at. To occupy this space between the current reality and our previous, unaware one was jarring. The comfortable certainty of returning home, returning to things securely in their place as we had left them had been sheared off from beneath our feet, leaving us peering into the murky depths below.