BRATTLEBORO — In Brattleboro, the Brooks House stood on the corner of Main and High streets, almost fortresslike, for generations.
Those of us who live and work in this community, especially downtown in the shadow of this iconic building, are heartbroken by the devastating fire that has displaced 80 people and almost a dozen businesses.
If you have never had to witness - or, heaven forbid, fall victim to - a major fire such as the one we had in our community late Sunday night and into Monday morning, you should consider yourself lucky.
The first thing you notice: the scene is quiet, hauntingly quiet, punctuated by sounds of breaking glass, falling pieces of the facade, and water everywhere - gushing from the fire hoses, misting in the air, running through the streets, cascading in sheets down the display windows of the businesses that will likely never reopen there.
Children stand still. Teenagers look on somberly. People from all walks of life stand silently, some gazing on the scene, some weeping, many stoically photographing the cataclysm for posterity.
Strangers talk with one another, making awkward conversation about this horrible event, this one mutually shared experience, that they now have in common. It's small talk that looms large.
Firefighters grimly move hoses back and forth. Police officers curtly route traffic around the affected area.
The tone is grave; the sense of loss, palpable.
And there's the smoke - the bitter, acrid smoke that lingers heavily, the smoke that permeates every pore of your body, every fiber of the clothing that you yourself now feel so grateful to have on your back.
You cannot escape the smell of that smoke. Even if you do not live in town, even if you have the luxury of going home to another small community, that smoke still travels with you. You cannot scrub it off. It is the last thing you smell when you go to sleep and the first thing you smell when you awaken.
It is both a poignant metaphor and a practical reality.
From the flotsam of everyday life to one's life's work, so much loss is commingled in that smoke.
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As we move through our days and nights in downtown Brattleboro, we all carry just a little bit of that loss.
After all, that smoke has bits of those irreplaceable photos on the refrigerator. The love notes tucked away in the cardboard box in the closet. The name and phone number of the girl or guy who actually wants you to call.
What else could be in that smoke? The cash from someone's last paycheck. The tax form. The prescriptions and the health insurance cards. The driver's license.
The furniture. The clothing. The jewelry from a beloved grandmother.
The albums lovingly assembled by Brattleboro Community Radio.
Alfred's dresses - his fabulous dresses.
And the smoke carries bits of the building itself: a stunningly beautiful example of late-nineteenth-century commercial architecture, built in an era when the most utilitarian of buildings were crafted with an exquisite attention to detail.`
In the grand scheme, it's true that these are only things. Residents of the building are safe and accounted for. Miraculously, of the dozens of firefighters who swarmed into town from three states, only three needed minor medical attention.
Things can be replaced - lives can't. But that doesn't minimize the needs of the town, its business community, and its downtown residents for resilience, strength, and abundant help.
It is heartwarming to see the helping hands from the countless number who have stepped up to provide shelter, financial support, clothing, and the countless other goods and services that become evident only when you have lost everything you own and have nowhere to live.
The sadness of the loss will linger for everybody, just as that smoke hangs over the town, for some time to come.