When the Fires Stopped Burning in Altadena

One year since the ecological disaster, the news cycle has moved on. But the people who live here dwell in the aftermath

​

For Harper's Bazaar​​

​

 ON morning walks for many weeks after the calamitous firestorm in Altadena, California, last January, I would happen upon stray pockets suspended in time. 

Homes trimmed with Christmas 2024’s forest-green wreaths, or perhaps a tipped-over jolly Santa. One vestige was most haunting: a grand front-lawn California live oak that was adorned with enormous, still-shiny ornaments catching the sun—a stopped clock.

tructures were sole survivors. The bungalows and ranch houses that once filled the neighborhood had been reduced to fire rubble: twisted metal, shattered stucco, and an explosion of glass shards. For months, it remained that way. Two truths, side by side. The casual arbitrariness of it all, staggering. 

Backhoes and stake trucks cleared and carried away much of that rough detritus in the heat of the summer. The neighborhood is now a palimpsest—yawning green fields dotted with wildflowers. The new vista, backdropped by the San Gabriel Mountains, looks like something from another century. Though striking, I cannot say that it looks beautiful, nor that it brings me any peace.