Smoldering By Megan Vos JULY AND AUGUST 2020 We return from a five-week road trip to our home in Boulder. The weeds in our front yard are taller than my daughters, and the grass is charred from record-breaking heat. The color of the sky defies description. The air is thick. I cough. Do I have COVID? I wonder, as I have frequently over the past five months. “Does your throat hurt?” I ask my husband. “It’s the smoke,” he says. I hope he is right. Inside, the air is stale, but not smoky. I fall into bed, grateful to be home, but missing my parents, whom we just left. I don’t know when we will see them again. I worry about the fires burning in the mountains. I do not know then that the hottest August on record awaits us. SEPTEMBER 2020 On the first day of remote learning, my daughters dress up and we take pictures on the front step like we do every year. Then we go inside and they log on and I cry. We are all miserable. Each day is a tinderbox on the verge of ignition. My kindergartner figures out that she can close the computer if she is tired of “school,” and after five minutes most days, she decides she’s done. My third grader is miserable, but when I suggest a break, she’s too stressed about missing something to be able to step away. She sits rooted to her chair, scowling at me each time I pass. My burnout from constant negotiating is oppressive. I channel my frustration into writing letters to voters in battleground states, urging them to vote in the presidential election. OCTOBER 2020 We are remodeling our bathrooms. We might as well, we thought over the summer, when we scheduled our construction for fall. Our kids would 11
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