It is wildfire season. Our view of distant glaciers is thin, gauzy. I’ve grown to rely on the strength of our landscape, these towering mountains keeping watch, standing still, a merciful comfort when things feel hard. But today, they are silent. The kids and I take turns grasping at the right words for the precise color of this nicotine sky. Dishwater? Sour milk?
Like the end of a bruise, we all agree.
At night, we sleep with the windows shut tight, beads of sweat behind our knees. We wake up wild-eyed with restlessness to find ash on our cereal bowls. We eat inside on the floor, play a round of Old Maid, take turns cooling our necks in front of the box fan, watch the sky.
