One Damn Thing After Another

My mom watering her flowers as a wildfire approaches I’m helping my mom evacuate, the air getting harder to breathe in this charred perfume, 23 square miles of conifers and oakbrush gone up in flames several miles away. Last report, the fire was about to crest the ridge at 10,000 feet where the front line is being slurried and fought with trenches and hand tools. It’s called the Gold Mountain Fire, started four days ago outside of Ouray, Colorado, from powerlines downed in a windstorm. That wind hasn’t let up. Ash twirls down on us like snow. My mom and I carry out furniture she built, heavy oak productions that we load in our two trucks, plus my stepdad’s laptop, a Navajo rug, and a copper bucket containing a box of matches, anything that just can’t be replaced. Hold up, I say to the copper bucket and its matches. Why are we taking this? My mom puzzles the question. She looks exhausted. She says, In case it gets so hot in the house they light. I explain that if it’s that hot, it’s…