Lava obliterates my neighbor’s home, but I am mesmerized and can’t look away. A dead Ohia tree on our hill sprouts new growth, while Fissure 17 creates the newest cinder hill next door. Stepping inside my house is like hugging an old friend — I don’t want to leave. But home isn’t safe anymore — I don’t want to stay. It’s an overwhelming internal conflict: feeling exhilarated by standing close enough to taste sulfur dioxide, yet haunted by an unknown future.

May 16, 2018 • Day 90, Year of the Dog

The end of our world starts on the night of non-stop earthquakes. Two days later, the volcano erupts in our neighborhood. We frantically shove our lives into canvas shopping bags and drive away from our home of 22 years. The next day we return to grab clothes just in time for the magnitude 6.9 earthquake. I leap onto my little dog and hold her in a fetal position while the house swims around us. Five more lava fissures erupt forcing us north to a subdivision with no jungle trails, no lava and no earthquakes.

May 6, 2018 • Day 80, Year of the Dog.

We drive too much during our evacuation, often heading home to rescue more of our lives — with dogs buckled in the back seat, because I refuse to leave them alone. Back home the weather is volatile, police check every ID, and the car crawls over painted cracks on the highway. Depleted and exhausted, we find solace crossing the wilderness of Saddle Road, and return to our temporary home in near darkness.

May 12, 2018 • Day 86 Year of the Dog.

Before the eruption, the `Io (Hawaiian hawk) brings a message that I don’t understand until after the volcano erupts next door. The `Io lands very close to my barking dogs and looks at us relaxing in our cedar cabin on the hill. One month later, Fissure 17 erupts in a direct line from where the `Io perched, ejecting a fountain of lava that builds a new cinder hill next to ours.

May 13, 2018 • Day 87, Year of the Dog.

All Hell breaks loose when nine fissures erupt at once, gushing lava in every direction. Lava fountains surge 300 feet while the boom from a sudden steam explosion sends shock waves through our bones. Strangers slip past police checkpoints to crowd my neighbor’s lanai for a nervous lava viewing party. I give my tripod to the Reuters photographer, then watch our neighborhood disappear forever.

May 18, 2018 • Day 92, Year of the Dog.

We can’t go home anymore. Our land is surrounded by lava. The high speed lava river from Fissure 8 decapitates Hwy 132 on the same day we rent a truck to haul out our furniture and police block all entry. My husband sneaks through the jungle in a friend’s pickup to load what he can, Beverly Hillbillies style. Then his phone dies and he’s gone for hours in the dark. My little dog senses our distress and has a panic attack where she can’t breathe. The emergency vet says to make her life as normal as possible. What is normal when you’re evacuating from a volcano?

May 31, 2018 • Day 105, Year of the Dog.

Day of mourning. The lava river detours backwards and evaporates Green Lake in a column of steam, then plunges into the ocean, eliminating Kapoho Bay and Champagne Pond, the jewels of Puna. Over 700 homes vanish. We face the ocean in silence. It’s six weeks into our evacuation so far, living out of a suitcase, anxious for stability, worried about Home. Pretend this is a vacation.

June 6, 2018 • Day 111, Year of the Dog.