mind jolts to the album of wedding photos in my livingroom, and I wonder what
it would look like to watch the protective plastic melt through the prints. What
would become of the gilded gold and lace dress hanging in the back of my closet?
How much smoke would there be if I tossed it all onto the fire? Would it give
me closure to destroy these few remaining relics of an identity that never had a
chance to fully take shape?
I don’t bother to brush away the sawdust that collects on my clothes,
in my hair. It sticks to my forehead shiny with sweat; it frames my face when
I remove the goggles to check my measurements and prepare for another
cut. The drone of the jigsaw overcomes the distant noises of children in the
neighborhood, the kicking on of sprinklers, the guttural wail of Harley engines.
Vice grips hold the pine planks in place as the vibrations reverberate through
my hands. A strand of hair falls loose from my ponytail, a futile obstruction that
should break my concentration, but it doesn’t.
20
I build so that I have less to lose. I build so I have something leftover to burn.
In elementary school, we had assemblies about fire safety. They warned
us about playing with matches, letting Christmas trees dry out, leaving candles
burning unattended. Local firefighters demonstrated their oxygen tanks and
passed around their hats for us to touch and tap with our knuckles. Smoky the
Bear became a cultural icon, warning each and every one of us, “Only you can
prevent forest fires.” I went camping with my Girl Scouts troop exactly once, but
it was enough to remember a detailed lesson on how to put out a campfire and
check for hidden embers lurking beneath the ash, just waiting for a gust of wind
to release them into the surrounding woods littered with dried pine needles.
I didn’t become familiar with the concept of controlled burns until I
learned about the Kirtland’s warbler, an endangered Michigan bird native of jack
pine forests. They make their nests on the ground, but only will do so if the pines
are young, between 6 and 22 years old, and between 5 and 20 feet tall, when the
lowest branches are closest to the ground. These low branches begin to die after
the tree is 15 years old; the higher the jack pine grows, the higher, too, become its