Kinglake

June 7th

Lost
One house. Mid-sized, white exterior, large sentimental value.
If found, please return to:
Brad Carson
34 Crestridge Road, Kinglake

"Like the sign," I shout over to Brad, who's rummaging through the centre of his charred-out lot.
"Thanks. Thought it was funny."

Brad lost his house in the bush fires that were raging outside Melbourne when I first arrived in Australia. As did a third of the residents of Kinglake.

It's a sunny Sunday and Brad called in the morning for a drive to see his property, where his house was. Shortly after leaving the city, the road is flanked by stands of blackened tree trunks: I had no idea just how close the fires had been.

Driving through Kinglake, Brad points out various spots, telling amazing stories, people who made it, those who didn't. His two young boys sit in the back seat: the house they lived in with their mom also burned down. Brad built both that house and his own.


And I don't know what to say.
That always seems like a trite, empty, clichéed expression: I don't know what to say. But there are times when that's simply the case; we're struck dumb by unimaginable events.

I'm so rarely at a loss for words.


Brad's attitude and demeanor seem almost at odds with the circumstances. He's positive, happy, upbeat, seemingly carefree. It's not until I see the Lost House sign that I get it: not good, not bad -- it just is.

And I don't have to say anything.
Only bear witness.

***

Later in the afternoon, we head down to the local pub. Brad knows everyone. The small town, country vibe could easily put this place in Albert County (where I'm from). People are chewin' the fat and tellin' tales. I'm instantly drawn into the fold, accepted in the blink of the eye thanks to my status as Brad's guest.

And I can say anything. Because it's not good, it's not bad.
It just is.