I go right there

The cute little designer cake shop at the corner of my street is no more. Last night, a raging fire swept through the upstairs apartment and the entire roof caved in and the whole building was basically totaled. After stepping off the bus today I walked over to check out the scene. Police had barricaded the entrance which was wide open. The old door to the apartment upstairs was sideways on the ground in front of the building. Front windows were blown out and all you could see was black inside. There were still a few darling little cakes on display, though they were a bit warped and dark with soot.

It has been almost exactly 10 years since the fire in my first apartment in San Francisco. I was a wide-eyed 19 year old sophomore who never thought something like that could happen to me. But it did and it was devastating. If it had not happened, I would probably still be in SF now. It is weird to think about that. One of  the main things that drew me to Chicago was how similar to SF it was. I felt the city vibe I was craving without having to go back there to the memories of living out of bags in motels and climbing the stairs in our soot-filled home to salvage whatever was not tossed out the front bay window by the firefighters.

Now, it is easy to think back and realize that I would not be where I am now if not for that fateful day I drove up behind the fire engines to watch the flames engulf my world. I am pretty sure that is a good thing. I love my life in Chicago and would never have met the awesome people in my life now if not for that fire. And I would have never known my fiance. We had to meet in the middle of the country since we are both from opposite ends of it. I am glad for all the changes in my life that fire spawned, as difficult and emotionally taxing as that time in my life was.

The weird thing is, no matter how much time has passed since that day, I can still go right back there. To the very moment. When I peered into the cake shop's windows, when I sniffed the ashy air on my block (that smell never goes away, trust me), when I read the article about the sisters who own it and saw the photo of their faces uncontrollably contorting in anguish, I was transported right back there. Right to the moment I saw the engines cruising up my street. It never seems to go away--that feeling of loss and violation that comes with having a traumatizing event like that.

It makes me want to hug those sisters. It makes me want to trudge into their poor little shop and help them salvage what they can. To give them advice about Simple Green and how it's the only thing that seemed to help get the campfire smell off of furniture and belongings. To tell them it's going to be okay eventually.

Recently, I was told that an old college friend of mine committed suicide. He was a fixture of that old apartment before it burned and also a strong presence in my life at that time. He was a creative and wacky guy with whom I had shared many an adventure. Since he was over at our place quite a bit, one of the possible causes of the fire was even pinned on him--a roommate claimed he had farted so terribly that a candle was lit to save all in the vicinity. And it is possible that the candle was never blown out when everyone left the house that day. They could not remember if it was or not. We will never truly know if that was what happened. But I always liked that theory best.

I could not go to the funeral for my friend, and I was sorry to miss it. I suppose, for me, he represented a lot of the craziness of life at that time in San Francisco. The manic energy, sleeping wherever we could find a place to lay our heads, staying up all night on the street to get concert tickets, going to wild parties and all the experimentation that goes along with attending college in an extremely urban environment. He was always up for anything and he could convince me that this might be the last time I ever get to do something so I better go all in. I am just realizing that all my truly great adventures at SFSU involved him in some way. I really hope he continued to live his life like that until the end.

I guess it was just really weird to hear about my friend's passing and see the damage this horrible fire caused all in the same week. It completely transported my mind back to a time I rarely think about these days. Yet that time in my life, that short two years I spent in SF, could possibly be the most formative years of my life to date. I cherish them dearly and even though I went through a lot, they made me the kooky and adventurous yet very responsible woman I am today. And the people with whom I shared that time--well lets just say I will never forget them as long as I live. Each one of them had a hand in making my time there magical before the fire and trauma dragged me back home and off to another world in Southern California.

With that in mind, RIP Carson. And thank you.