If You Have to Go

The call to evacuate came the same day ash fell from the sky, an acrid snow soon blanketing the neighborhood as drought-fueled blazes surged in from the east. We’d followed the news for weeks, clinging to ritual and attending court appointments even as broadcasters shouted about the Smokies on fire. Then suddenly the world inverted; ash brightened the ground, the sky turned so dark the tulips refused to open. We were already sorting our belongings when the announcement sounded, cutting through Retta Bonet’s voice of warm velvet on the radio. 

Your long tapered fingers curled into fists as you listened. Anger polished your eyes when you said, “A single person can cause so much damage.” There wasn’t time to consider whether you meant the suspected arson or the papers we were soon going to sign. It would all have to wait, the discussion of who would get the house becoming as void as the old-growths going up in flames. 

“We need to leave,” I said. “Now.” Yet I was the one hesitating, trying desperately to think of something I couldn’t live without. In the end, I packed only water and our shared favorite of sandwiches made with apples and cheese. In the end, I helped you put your bag in my truck even though you could have saved your own car. In the end, I left with only you beside me and pointless hope about the contents of your canvas duffle. The heart is always the last to leave, hunched over the hearth, blowing on cold embers while the building burns.