We flew in from winter. The Australian summer was smoky from above, the view of the harbour obscured by haze. We had been following news of the Australian bushfires for the past month but this was our first sight of them. November and December were spent in coats and gloves, watching for ice on the footpath and watching clouds of breath dissipate in the chilly morning air.

Winter coats stuffed in our carry-ons, we waited at the baggage claim for the six suitcases which held all of our possessions from the past year. It was 6.30 in the morning and we were arriving at Sydney Airport after a year spent in Virginia. The kids were searching for our suitcases when my phone rang at the baggage claim. It was my husband, calling to say he was not going to be at the airport because he had gone south, where the family farm was threatened by bushfire. The 144-hectare Currowan blaze had merged with the 22-hectare Tianjara fire, and it was burning all sides of the farm on the South Coast, between Bendalong and Milton. He had been back in Australia since November, for work, and we hadn’t seen him in six weeks. I wanted to cry at the news that he would not be at the arrivals hall, ready to envelop me in a hug, but I swallowed and smiled when I got off the phone. The kids were lugging our suitcases one by one to the baggage carts.