One Year Later

He had said that a forest fire would make quick work of it. That if an errant spark from a campfire were to find its way into a pile of slash in the canyon below, there would be nothing to stop it. That the spark would grow into a flame and then a blaze as it charged up the hillside, fueled by pockets of wind. He had said that a mile is not a far distance for a forest fire to travel, provided it has enough view. He had stood on the back deck and gestured with his arms to underline the point; a backdrop filled with ponderosa pine and yellowed autumn grass. A bed of dried needles layered upon the forest floor. He had said that yearly cutting and mitigation would only help so much – ultimately, it would be the fire that decided. My 11-year old mind immediately leapt at the idea of a self-aware fire, breathing and swelling and determining what patches of forest to destroy; what homes to swallow. I watched as my father assessed his handiwork, the home that he had just finished building. I knew that he was envisioning it in his mind - the march of flames progressing to the edge of the porch. The first tentative lick expanding to a full-on embrace as the flame curled around the railing and up the side of the house. The blaze working its way from frame to interior with terrible, caustic grace. The house that he had built. Inside, our lives that we had constructed. It’s been twenty years since he said these things. Only the chimney remains.