Nov 2019
In your last months here, Florida was being ravaged by wildfires. They stretched across from coast to coast, dry shrubs and dead underbrush sparking forest fires that raged for weeks on end.
I told you then that I thought of them as an omen. You would be flying off to Oregon for school soon. To me, the state was burning itself to the ground in protest of your departure. Maybe it wanted to trap you here with us. Maybe it thought the smoke would suffocate us together. I didn’t ask.
The smoke hazed over the highway that I would take when I left your apartment and returned home. I would roll my windows down and welcome the smoke into my car. My hoodie zipped up to combat what counts as cold nights in Florida’s eternal summer with the rich, acrid smoke filling my windshield and lungs. I welcomed it. I loved the scent. It reminded me of you.
The fires slowly burned out after you left Florida. I know this was because they had run out of brush to burn, but I assigned it meaning to you regardless. The state was safe and you were gone.
For two years after you left we tried to make things work. With 2,500 miles between us, you chasing a doctorate and I chasing a master’s. Me making time for you and you cheating on me for the last ten months.
In the wake of these last ten months, I left you. You’ve asked for me back, begged me to stay your best friend, but I can’t afford to give you a third chance.
And I’m sure it’s a coincidence, but the fires are back. Driving home from class I smelt that rich acrid smoke, the haze over the highway more than humidity and mist. I rolled down my windows and let my hand hang out as the smoke poured in. It filled my windshield and lungs. It reminded me of you.
I told you then that I thought of them as an omen. You would be flying off to Oregon for school soon. To me, the state was burning itself to the ground in protest of your departure. Maybe it wanted to trap you here with us. Maybe it thought the smoke would suffocate us together. I didn’t ask.
The smoke hazed over the highway that I would take when I left your apartment and returned home. I would roll my windows down and welcome the smoke into my car. My hoodie zipped up to combat what counts as cold nights in Florida’s eternal summer with the rich, acrid smoke filling my windshield and lungs. I welcomed it. I loved the scent. It reminded me of you.
The fires slowly burned out after you left Florida. I know this was because they had run out of brush to burn, but I assigned it meaning to you regardless. The state was safe and you were gone.
For two years after you left we tried to make things work. With 2,500 miles between us, you chasing a doctorate and I chasing a master’s. Me making time for you and you cheating on me for the last ten months.
In the wake of these last ten months, I left you. You’ve asked for me back, begged me to stay your best friend, but I can’t afford to give you a third chance.
And I’m sure it’s a coincidence, but the fires are back. Driving home from class I smelt that rich acrid smoke, the haze over the highway more than humidity and mist. I rolled down my windows and let my hand hang out as the smoke poured in. It filled my windshield and lungs. It reminded me of you.
