Kimberlee K.

Growing up in Southern California, I’m no stranger to fire.

While I live in suburbs far enough from most at risk areas, I’ve watched the surrounding hillsides glow orange and then char; watched the blue smoggy sky get swallowed up by smoke thick enough to spark pain right between your eyes.

A year ago, I watched as half the county raced through the streets in fear, watched apocalyptic newscasts showing houses and cars abandoned, and heartbroken neighbors hold on to each other as they returned home to piles of ash.

I watched it all guiltily from my living room, or on my computer at work. I watched it all wondering, what would I do? What would I grab if I knew everything else had to be left behind?

I lay awake at night, picturing my apartment, running over every shelf and every drawer, searching. I listen to my suitcases groan as I stuff them full of everything I feel can’t live without.

I’d grab my rings, all gifts and promises from people that love me. I’d scoop them into my pocket as I left behind the sunglasses we wore at my sister’s bachelorette party, the tiny dinosaur gifted to me by my best friend’s son on his birthday, and the box of jewelry I haven’t worn since middle school but remind me of great aunts and grandparents that are no longer here.

I’d grab clothes and shoes, but so few that I’d be emabarassed for all the times I “cleaned out my closet” and found nothing to get rid of, aware, so suddenly, how I lucky I am to have clothes at all, clothes to take, clothes to keep, clothes that fit.

I’d grab my journals and the small jar of wishes I’ve had since I was eighteen, scared to lose the versions of myself I often tried to forget but suddenly couldn’t bear to lose. I’d grab my passport and promise to fill the pages with stamps, sad to know the expired one would burn with those I’d already collected.

I’d stare at the shelf my dad handmade in his backyard, now filled with trinkets that had survived countless spring cleans. I’d look in my suitcase and know I need the room, so I’d try to memorialize the luxury I’d experienced in looking at them every day—pockets of people and memories that smiled up at me every time I walked into the room. Maybe I’d grab a rock or two that my mom and I collected from the Mediterranean Sea, and the picture of me and my niece. Maybe I’d grab one vintage camera I promised myself I’d learn how to use, and let it represent the whole collection—the whole season of my life that seems to be over.

The throw pillows on the couch, the decorative candles, the wall art I obsessed over for months would all stay, and maybe I’d realize they didn’t “make or break” me or the apartment or the life I was trying to lead.

I would grab my Bible, my iPod, the carved wooden angel I got in the Holy Land. I would grab the composition notebook full of concert tickets and invitations even though I questioned over the years whether it was a pretty enough scrapbook to continue.

I would run my fingers over the bench that once sat in my grandmother’s house, and then in the apartment I shared with my sister, apologizing that I couldn’t keep it in the family. I’d look in the matching mirror that hung next to the front door, knowing it might be the last time I saw myself there, with everything in its place behind me.

I’d want one mug that I claimed after my grandpa died, and one bowl from the set I got for Christmas, and I’d sift through the silverware drawer for that one spoon I’ve always loved but don’t know why.

I’d wonder if I had room for the vase I got in Spain, something I’d wanted to own since I was little and got emotional when I bought it decades later. And I’d tell myself there was no room for the cookbooks swollen with post-it notes, all while wondering how I never got around to the recipes.

I’d grab my photo albums and raincoat, my favorite books off the shelf, and the tiny little Russian doll that used to sit on the dresser in my childhood home. Do I have time to get on the balcony? I’d wonder. Where all of my Christmas stuff is stored? I just want three or four ornaments that do more than decorate my tree.

“I’m sorry,” I’d say to the plants that ignored my black thumb and stayed alive.

Sorry, to the carefully curated collection of DVDs that I would have kept long enough to come back in style.  Sorry, to the drawer full of frames I never filled, and to the candles I didn’t light. Sorry to the sewing machine I put on my long list to learn how to use, and the construction paper I kept for a craft I never made. Sorry to the yoga mat that saw me through every single kind of day and let me roll and unroll it at my will. Sorry to the towels I didn’t use because the softer ones were always clean, and the hair products underneath my bathroom sink I was never courageous enough to try.  Sorry to the heartfelt gifts that went unused or unworn, and the unfinished projects who never got to take shape.

Again, my suitcases groan as I run out of the room.

But what a privilege to have the time to pack. To have a moment to memorize life as I know it. To collect the things I feel I can’t live without, when some are told to choose between the things and life itself.

Each year people not that far from me have to grapple with these choices, while I watch, sad, safe—so far. And if I should stay so lucky, I want to notice. So I look around and breathe it in—where I am and what I have—because it’s the very least I can do.