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we have collectively forgotten how to live.

[ann]

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The forest burns while the sky darkens with rain. Black smoke rises against the craggy, storm-fed mountains as I drive home, drops breaking against my windshield. We make pancakes and open the doors and windows for the rich wet smell to come in, cold damp life, fire and rain.

I made up a game for myself when I was a kid, where I would spend the whole day pretending I had only hours to live. I would walk around, mourning all the little pieces of my life, hugging my dogs, crying real tears over my parents and my sister's loss, driven to distraction wondering who should get which stuffed animals and what might have been.

Then at night, I would lift the spell, allow myself to be healed. In the moments afterward, I felt such a rush of appreciation that I would eat dinner again tomorrow, that I would feel my dog's narrow spine against my palm, that my sister and my parents slept soundly, unaware of the bullet that had just been dodged. In those moments, I realized the strength of my will to live, saw some part of the beauty of this gift I just used up every day.

Fires rage around me and storms brew, ready to battle it out. And in the midst of it all, I want to live. I want to stop forgetting this.