The weekend fires destroyed more than just apartments. They were homes where people created cherished memories.

I know, because once upon a time when my son was a toddler, I was struggling. The lower east side apartment of one of the buildings was our home.

At the time, it was just cheap housing. It didn't seem like much to an outsider, but it was ours. I worked hard to make it our clean, well-furnished home.

Within the walls, we built a safe, peaceful home. We dreamed there. We played there. We loved our neighbors-- many of whom were struggling, too.

On Sunday evening, it was as if I was somehow being lured to revisit. The core of my heart ached for the people who lost loved ones, and who have injuries.

There was a lot of emotion on the street that evening. Understandably so.

When one man became irate because a security guard would not allow him a closer look, he screamed a few obscenities.

A young couple cried nearby. I would pray with them. I would help her vent.

One woman wondered aloud if they will find the person who did this.

She added, "He set the gas can in the entry way there by the mailboxes, and lit it. No one could get out. He killed three innocent people."

She asked me if I knew where she was talking about-- there by the mailboxes.

I told her, I know. I used to live there.

An official-looking man asked which apartment I used to live in. When I told him, he said, "Oh yes. The one back there where the windows exploded."

Earlier in the day, the yellow tape prohibited people from getting close. Cars turned around, and I could see people crying through their windshields.

I felt a sigh of relief when the crime scene tape was later lifted and people could enter. They needed this.

Whether people felt the need to get close as part of their grieving process, or whether they were curious onlookers, they needed this.

To stare, to sob, and to try to imagine. If this was arson, what kind of person would do this? This seemed to be the question of the day.

A woman standing alone fidgeted with her fingernails, "I hope they catch him." I assured her they will, like I would know all about it.

To some it may have all just been ramblings.

Sometimes in our greatest shock we cannot make sense of things. Sometimes too, there are no adequate words to properly describe the horror and devastation of someone else.

I give these displaced residents the respect that I will not try to pretend I know what they are experiencing.

Sometimes our silence is just golden. As I stood there feeling my heart ripped to shreds for people I had never met, a woman pleaded , "What are we going to do?"

I said little but she saw the tears. In the wake of tragedy, sometimes we can just say the most with our presence, prayers and silence.