AUGUST

Montana State University

August is framed by wildfire. A shawl of smoke drapes across its shoulders, plumed with darkened clouds, a feathering of flame. Our cabin stands miles away from the burn, but the haze is thick and cloying. Only a gentle guitar sigh can part the curtain. I press my nose to my shoulder as flakes drift down around me. Donnelly burns. This is Idaho’s annual show. The crackling applause from the ponderosa pine urges encore with every snap of a limb. If a tree falls during a forest fire—but this wild land is too late for emergency sirens. Skeletal branches shudder, groan. Will anyone come to save it? Fire sings down their arms, and I inhale, hoping I can remember the words. Happy birthday.

August flickers in the light of a candle. My father’s cheeks flush pink above the wax, caught in the embrace of the glow. I am home from Donnelly, and air pops from my lips as the song calls for a hard consonant p. Happy. We throng around him in our small celebration: my mother, my sister, and me. Lean in, my mother urges so she can take a photo for the relatives. I screw my eyes up against the flash. Blink the stars from my vision as my father cuts the cake with a butter knife. Oh, says my mother as she previews the photos, leaning in to show my sister, that’s the one. I hope that I’m not the only one it shows blinking. We pluck off the candles to lick the sweetness from their ends. Ceramic clamors as plates pass from hand to hand. The cake has been the same flavor for the past three years: dark chocolate with ginger and huckleberries. My dad tells us it’s his favorite. After just one bite, the flavor lies thick across my tongue, and I chase it with milk. Crumbs fleck my lips. I smile, mouth stained midnight dark with juice and icing. Across the table, he smiles back. Happy birthday. But that day, like final chords and the presence of cake in a family of four, is fleeting.

August burns in my chest. It’s the next year, the 18th again, and I hold the phone to my ear. Happy birthday, I whisper, and if there’s a tremor in my voice? Well, you can blame that on poor connection. We’re about to eat cake, my dad tells me, and I press the screen against my cheek. I wish that the warmth of the device was the presence of their company. That the burn at the bridge of my nose, at the corners of my eyes, stemmed from the inhalation of summer smoke instead of regret. That my