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I didn't see the burn pile across
the way earlier that day, but the cold air has kept the smoke hanging low in
the air, slowly pushing south with the wind. Wherever it moves, the smoke gives
the illusion of a fire chasing after its tail from far below. The black swatch
stays in the same formation, freezing time when the fire was extinguished. I
can't help but think of this blemish in our view as ghosts of whatever was
being burned. A chemical reaction may have taken apart whatever was in that
burn pile-likely scrap wood-but their atoms and basic building blocks are still
there, floating above the remains.
I didn't see the mountainside come
down that day, but every day I see the scar that caused such destruction on our
haven. The rubble acts like a blanket, but not one offering warmth. Rather, it
smothers the remains of whatever it covers. It has not moved, but we fear it
will. I can't help but think of this debris pile as an eternal grave for its
victims. They will always be a part of nature; their atoms will always be
ingrained in the fabric of Haines.
I
did see them, the red crossbills perched on the snow dusted devil's club. I
would not be able to grip this vicious plant as their feet can, but they do not
feel the pain we do. They have the ability to evade nature's piercing spikes.
They are the life that moves on. I can't help but feel like these small
flighted birds, not being directly affected by a tragedy that has struck so
many. We are the life that has moved on while others cannot. We are the hope for
the victims still in pain.
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