Andi Smith
Smokejumpers
We live in a burning town. It’s all dirt dust and scratchy yellow pines that snap and spit in the fires, and every night the sunset glows red. We can see the bright spots of the fires, like so many stars in the sky, on all the other mountains and in the valleys, and we like to think we’re untouchable because we’re so high up. But the hot air rises, and so does the ash. It collects in the grout between tiles, empty cups on windowsills, our hair, the thin lines on our palms. The couches and beds are covered in a fine gray powder that flies up when we sit down, no matter how much we clean. Not even screens can keep it out. Most people call it autumn. We call it fire season. The radio warns us to move south. We clear away the dead brush and dig trenches around our homes. We keep the car full of gas and the family photos in the glove compartment, just in case. If someone has a bathtub, it’s filled with water. 37
