#Aftermath

I can still walk down the street in Corryong and have people know who I am. Amanda and Jen can too. That means something to me, not because I need to be remembered, but because it tells me the relationships were real. The trust did not vanish when a funding stream ended or a role changed. Jen is still working in that space for council, and some of the liaison people we later put on became so trusted that when fires went through again, they were brought back straight away. That is not a small legacy.

Those inspection tours were the beginning of recovery for me, although I did not understand that at the time. I thought recovery would begin when we opened the proper recovery centre, with services in place and people at desks and brochures in stands. In truth, recovery had already started out on those roads, walking beside people through ash, learning not to promise what we could not deliver, learning to sit quietly, learning that a blue vase or a melted tyre or a row of water jars could hold more meaning than any official report.

Opening the doors did not fix anything. It simply made a place where the fixing, grieving, arguing, feeding, worrying and starting again could begin. At the time, that felt like nowhere near enough. Looking back, I think it was the only honest place to start.

Looking back, that first day was not the beginning of recovery in the neat way people might like to say it was. Recovery had not begun just because we had opened a hall, made tea, found bedding, and written down names. For many people, the worst of what they had lost was not even fully known yet.

Some heroes are named on plaques. Some are thanked in speeches. Some are remembered only by the people whose lives they helped steady for a moment when everything else had fallen away. This book is for them too. By the way Tracey was awarded a medal for her work, along with many others in this most trying of times