Smoke

Poem No.184

Summer reminds me of my grandfather. He liked fireworks and horseshoes, canoe rides and bird watching, salted watermelon and sweet corn, roasted on the cob.

I thought of him last night, as we watched fireworks launch from dozens of backyards, up and down our dry valley, the echoes of their detonations reverberating — disorienting and strange — off the sage-scented, grass-covered hills. My grandfather liked fireworks, but preferred safety, in all its minutiae. I still hear his voice, echoing down the valley of time, orienting and familiar, whenever I so much as strike a match. (“Away from you, Adam. Away.”) He worried about the safety of those he loved, and would not have approved of last night’s dry weather displays.

I thought of him again briefly this morning, as we woke to wildfire alarms, disorienting and increasingly familiar, and to a valley full of sage-scented smoke. I think he’d be proud of our go-kits and evac plan, of the real-time incident maps just a click away in our browser. I think he’d be frightened by the prospect of a future in which such things are ever more necessary.

Poems not only reveal or examine layers, they collect them, too, as they travel with us through time. I’d already planned on sharing this specific poem today. And now the synchronicity of the day’s events have added a new layer of memory for me, to a piece that was already about my grandfather, summer, safety, and the scent of smoke:

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Smoke

The scent of a cigarette
reminds me of my grandfather,
who would be horrified to know this —
he was so proud to have never smoked.

But he did take me to Fenway,
bought soda and Cracker Jacks,
and a scorecard so I could keep stats.

I liked the game,
the chorus of the crowd,
the hot salted popcorn we would share.

And I loved the green bowl of that stadium,
filled with golden halogen light
and a thick blue blanket
of cigarette smoke.

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Thanks for reading,
~ A

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