SmokeLong Quarterly

We are nearly there, and my friend turns to me, touching my arm. I smile, and she points out a distant snow-brushed peak. The hills are black ash but already trees sprout bright dresses of life. Snug houses, flame-licked but whole, sit amongst silent forest ghosts. There is one home coming up on our right, burnt with memory, where she will be waiting. Three and a half decades ago, she held me, briefly, before I went to other arms. Now, as we turn down the drive, I see her. She stands under a carport, her face in the light, shining.