Memory

Smoke in the Cold I watched a man smoke outside on the sidewalk this morning. He had a wool coat and a face like a riverbed—lined, quiet, used to waiting. The smoke curled up and disappeared, the way stories do when no one writes them down. We live in a time that hates smoke. We hate the smell, the stain, the suggestion of death. We speak in warnings: Dangerous. Addictive. A sign of poor choices. But there was a time when to smoke was not to sin. It was to mark the end of a meal, or a long silence. It was something to do with your hands while thinking. It was a fire you held close. ...

Nebraska, the Last Time We drove three hours ahead of the storm, racing toward birds that might save us. At their sanctuary we rested, you on an old bench beneath weathered boards, fighting for air through plastic tubing. I watched dark clouds gather. No cranes in sight. No birds for you. A woman approached, phone in hand, radar glowing with green and red warnings. "The storm," she said. Nothing more needed. We left what we came for, abandoned the hope of some grand reunion, some field of dancing we'd imagined. Windows down, first raindrops striking skin, we drove in silence through gray fields. Then they appeared— streams of them crossing the sky, thousands breaking the horizon, their ancient calls carrying over wet earth. A river of birds flowing opposite our direction, their red crowns like small flames against the darkening world. You gripped my hand. Two pilgrims watching travelers more weary than ourselves, all of us being washed clean.