Ashes are not the stuff of life.

I learned that in August 2023 from a mortician preparing to cremate my mother. The organic matter in a person’s body, I was told, vaporizes when burned hot enough, leaving behind the pulverized, inorganic substance we call ashes.

So what I might call “Mom” is actually a pile of inert minerals indistinguishable from any other person’s remains. Put the stuff in the ground, and plants will grow around it but not through it.

Yet these ashes mean something. They are final, heartbreakingly inadequate, tangible evidence of my mom’s existence. They are a relic that helps me reflect on life before and after her death.

I thought of that as the ashes of trees, homes and possessions destroyed by the Eaton fire in Altadena covered sidewalks, cars and anything else that remained outside during the apocalyptic windstorm last week. My family lives a few miles downwind from Altadena, and on the night of Jan. 7, the conditions seemed extreme enough that we too might need to leave. East of us, several houses burned down in a spot fire believed to have been ignited by embers blown from Altadena.

A niece in Glendale, farther from the Eaton fire’s origin but under greater threat than we were, evacuated to our home. Family, friends, old high school classmates — many fled. Some lost their homes and more.

Their losses are real and incomparable to the mere distress felt by those of us who still have roofs over our heads and schools for our children to attend. Our suffering, if you can call it that, comes from empathy; theirs, from the unforgiving bully of experience.

And yet the collective trauma to Los Angeles is undeniable, especially to communities close to Altadena and Pacific Palisades. The ash that fell on us for days was but a physical reminder, a merciful one at that, of the destruction just up the road from us.

Nearly two weeks later, Altadena’s ashes remain in sidewalk crevices and other hard-to-clean places in my neighborhood. Any other time, you’d think a group of cigarette smokers hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. Or, if this were a more “typical” fire deeper in the mountains, it could be the remains of shrubs and trees blown in from Angeles National Forest. That happened during the Bobcat fire in 2020.

This time, and from this fire, it’s different.

Driving the family minivan, I used the wipers to clear dust and grime off the windshield — and then wondered what remnants of other families’ lives I had just thoughtlessly brushed away. Perhaps these specks were once family photos, diplomas hanging on walls, maybe even pages from the hymn books in the burned-down church where the spouse of one of my wife’s colleagues is the rector.

Which homes’ ashes are neighbors scattering by sweeping off their driveways? Could any of the remains be from the classroom in Altadena where my wife and I took our children to Mrs. Henry’s early parenting class? From the house on Christmas Tree Lane where, two years ago, model train builders graciously entertained my kids?

Winds had blown these ashes, relics from Altadena’s trauma, all around us. And as we might grieve over the remains of a deceased loved one, these might prod us to consider the question: What now?

In the 1950s, my grandparents settled in a modest bungalow downslope from fire-prone hills and canyons in Glendale. Living within sight of mountains reminded them of home in Norway. Is the sense of safety that once allowed them to make that bargain with nature — arguably the quintessential quality of life in Los Angeles— now gone? Have we dumped so much carbon into the atmosphere that what was once “just far enough” from nature is “too close” today?

Thankfully, these ashes are not the stuff of life. And judging by GoFundMe pages and promises to rebuild, the beating heart of Altadena remains. Plans are being made to relight the cedars on Christmas Tree Lane as soon as possible, in a show of community resilience.

But I hope we never fully clear away the memory of these ashes. It could serve to remind us, long after the broader collective trauma subsides, that the people who lost so much in Altadena — the true stuff of life in that community — still need our help.

____

Paul Thornton is the Los Angeles Times’ letters editor.

©2025 Los Angeles Times. Visit at latimes.com. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.