More Rock Than Water

On living in a time of drought and conflagration

Some days the smoke from the wildfires is so thick I cannot see the mountains across the valley.  The yellow, acrid air creeps under the doorjamb into our garage.  I wet a towel to stop it from coming into the house.  Every morning I wake and think: “today will be different,” but the smoke stays — persistent, suffocating.

The river is dropping and drier by the day.  In its narrow, upper reaches it is now more rock than water.  I cannot bear to look at the fish. They struggle to seek colder flows and vital oxygen.  They dart into fast water or pile into pockets, but there are few deep pools left.  There is nowhere for them to go.  They face forward and hold on.

I stay inside and remind myself to count my blessings, making lists in my head until they become rote. But I don’t remember the last time I held a friend close.  I scarcely remember the last time I saw my sister, my father.  I don’t remember what it was to walk and talk with impunity.  I am distant and perfunctory, even with those I love — shuttered, gutted, cold.

Some days I turn to my neighbor and I no longer recognize their face.  In their countenance is something I cannot understand, something that frightens me.  I open my ears to listen, I open my mouth to speak, but I feel a boiling anger rise like bile in my throat.  It feels like hopelessness.  It feels like despair.  I am losing my humanity.  I face forward and hold on.

The sun rises on a brittle landscape, a hotbox ready to burn, and I wish to god that it would rain.

-EH, August 2020