My adopted hometown, Wenatchee Washington, burned yesterday.
The fire started in an area northwest of the city, called Sleepy Hollow. Triple-digit heat and ferocious winds quickly turned a small blaze into a monster.
That monster descended upon the city with a speed I can scarcely wrap my head around. We all watched it race across the hills with terrifying speed.
In the span of eight hours I went from snapping photos of helicopters running water to the blaze north, to watching a swath of the industrial heart of the city turned to ash by an ember borne miles on the wind. I've gone from evacuating my home with only those items we deemed essential, to sleeping (very little) on the floor of a church sanctuary, to resting comfortably once again in my own home.
I have mourned with friends their losses, and rejoiced that they are unharmed.
It has been a deeply surreal twenty four hours. I am deeply grateful for where I am tonight.
This is my attempt to come to terms with the last day, in telling, as best I know how, my small piece of the story.
