The air is unhealthy.
There are a few things that must be right—
and when they are not, it becomes a problem.
We’ve proven that we can’t control much.
But we’ve learned to expect some basics.
One of the more important expectations is this:
We should be able to breathe.
I live in California, and it’s the summer of 2018.
It seems that most of the state is burning.
For thousands, it is the end of the world.
Even where it’s not burning,
the smoke rolls in from elsewhere—
lowering visibility, turning sunsets to rust,
and pressing down on the sky
until the only trace of blue
is a narrow patch directly overhead.
The news reports 17 fires,
14,000 firefighters on the line.
One fire is ten times the size of San Francisco.
It started when a trailer lost a tire—
the metal rim flung sparks
thirty feet from the freeway.
More than 8,400 homes and structures are gone.
Flattened. Charred. Vanished.
And yet—
only six confirmed deaths.
Ask anyone,
and they’ll tell you:
That’s six too many.
But the other toll is invisible.
Thousands more will suffer from what the air now carries—
not just wood smoke,
but chemicals from scorched plastics and insulation,
toxic ash from the contents of man-made lives.
Even poison oak—
acres of it, burned—
its oils atomized and drifting on the wind.
There’s no easy recovery from this.
There is only
living with the scars.
