Saying goodbye to home

California

We outran the fires for the first time.

Every Fall we’d sit in the sand, breathe smoke through our N95s

and watch gray waves curl like ribbon under a scissor’s blade

across a muted orange sky.

“What’s worse—surfing in this asbestos water or missing these waves?”

We’d watch as our home turned toxic.

We’d settle into the hazy skies that blended into an ash-covered coast.

We’d hold our breath for rain and count the days till

clean enough.

Every year our lungs acclimated,

our breath less frequent,

our math multiplying across calendar rows.

This year we left.

We wished her the best and told her to be strong.

Stronger than us.

And we left.

Traveled north with smoke so close behind it pulled at my hair—

a sister who’s anger hides hurt.

The saltless rivers we bathed in were too clean, too pure

to strip the smell of smoke

and every morning I woke to a head full of fires.