Firewatch

The forest fires burned all summer.

I’d watch the reports: 50 kms, 45, 40, 35.

Always approaching the lake resort, towards the family cabin.

Then there were the calls about Mom. She was failing, and they were just keeping me informed.

It didn’t matter—there was nothing I could do for either.

My sister had a stroke and terminal cancer, and was getting out of the hospital soon. I was her primary caregiver.

Eventually, the fires slowed. Firebreaks were built, and the rains came. They weren’t out, but they were contained.

You could say I was relieved. Ours was a cabin Dad had built, now packed with everything from the farm, from Mom‘s move, from Judy‘s return, from all our disrupted lives.

But I’d be lying.

Part of me wouldn’t have minded if the flames picked up again or the ashes had drifted. Not all the cabins. Only mine.

Let it fucking burn.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​