I Misunderstood Last Night's Fire

Dear Kate,

Wildfire burns, sends over smog pregnant with reticence.  What's there to say, about anything at all?  Ashes to ashes: we too shall all disperse, one day (tomorrow?), squander every last bit of good there ever was, dissipate into thick, hazy air.  

I was walking along the New Westminster pier early Saturday morning.  The murky sky turned everything into its pencil outline, a muted world before the invention of ochre paint, when cavemen were afraid of fire, no more or less than we are now.  We've been to the moon and back since, but the fire of fear shall forever burn, and we will never be able to do anything about it.  Never.

By Sunday night the pier was offered to the gods.  I am surprised no one considered me a suspect.  I have not been back to the pier for about 20 years now.  She stayed unscathed for me before giving herself away in the most spectacular way, protesting, among other things, my cruel neglect.

My first summer job was in the New West Quay market.  Saturday I went back in particular to smell my youth.  The doors were shut.  I was too early.  I moved too fast, now as then.

Back then the shop I cashiered sold mostly knick-knacks from China, its owner a friend of my mom, fried chicken he liked and liked to treat me to.  The faint incense fragrance of imports commingled with the fresh singe of poultry, such is the scent of my youth.  I can smell it on myself even now.

The owner didn't need me.  I felt sorry for him.  He needed to lower his voice when arguing with his wife.  The pier didn't need me.  I misunderstood last night's fire.

Yours, Alex