Smoke

It’s all circular, they say. History repeats itself.

The people on the TV say it, with their coiffed hair and subtle makeup. It’s inevitable, they say with a shrug. 

The girl figures this means that, however many years ago, there was probably another child, eyes wide and dark, staring up at the screen, or with a newspaper clenched in a little hand, confused and upset. Just like her.

That’s how she likes to imagine it, anyway.

It makes her feel less alone as the television flickers with explosions, screams, hurried explanations, a discarded newspaper on the counter next to her, filled with words she wishes she didn’t understand.

Big, scary headlines. Flashing, exploding silver screen. History repeats itself, they croon.

She raises her hand, still chubby with baby fat, her fingertips drifting over the screen.

And maybe she feels it all. Maybe she has to recoil away from the television, hissing at her burnt hand, at the terror that ran through her for just a moment. Maybe she has to force a breath, turn her attention back to her cereal, cast her eyes down, fleetingly, to her singed pointer finger. Maybe she forces herself to forget.

Forget how everything is shrouded in smoke and they’re calling it a nuclear winter and the apocalypse and hell all in one breath.

Forget how the smoke outside her window is thick. White, like a void. And forget how on the second day it was yellow, like the painting of lemons her mother hung over the kitchen sink. The day after that, orange, like some kind of odd sunset. She’ll have to wait to forget the rest, wait to see if it turns red in the morning sun. Maybe after that it’ll turn pink and purple, to match her bedroom curtains. 

She hopes. 

A booming voice, a raucous crowd. Smoke. History repeats itself.

She watches it on the television and she hears it in the streets, the begging to someone who doesn’t exist and doesn’t listen. She knows it intimately.

She touches the screen again and doesn’t pull away.

Hand simmering, steaming, smoke shrouding her senses. Filling her nostrils and creeping down her throat.

In the distance, there’s a yell, there’s a light.

She hopes it’s the good kind.

She thinks it is.

It is a light, after all.

Lights can mean all sorts of things. At least, that’s what the people on the TV are saying. 

Her mother appears behind her, braiding her hair with trembling hands. Time for school. 

What?

It’s time for school.

She doesn’t have the mind to question why she’s being piled into the cramped Volkswagen, navigated blindly through the smoke, dropped off at the brick building with the feeling of her mother’s lips lingering on her cheek. She doesn’t have the mind to ask why everyone’s still acting normal, when even she knows the distant booms are dangerous, never mind how many times her mother tries to cover them up with a cough.

She may not understand that, but she does understand a few other things.

She understands her teacher is upset. Jittery. The laser pointer trembles in her hand, making the lessons hard to follow. The blinds are shut, makeshift curtains hung over the windows. Her teacher checks them compulsively, peaking out the window with chattering teeth, snapping away when someone calls her name.

The girl wishes she knew their purpose. To conceal the children inside or to hide whatever’s going on within the smoke.

She understands her class is smaller than usual. Empty seats litter her classroom. The hallways, normally booming with laughter and yells, are silent. Still. Like they’re waiting for something, prey hiding from predator.

Or maybe she’s just being dramatic. Her mother says she has a tendency to do that.

When it’s time for recess, her entire grade is crowded into the gym instead of released upon the playground like usual.

It’s loud. Cries and yells echo around the spacious room, hitting her ears unpleasantly.

At one point, her friend presses a flower into her hand. Pink but browning, little drops of water beading in its center. It looks like paper, feels like life.

I found it outside, her friend says.

I saw a light, she responds.

Her friend nods. I saw it too.

An older kid stands up, hair so long it almost touches her knees. I want to go outside! She yelps, face red. Outside! Outside! Outside! 

She’s escorted out of the room quickly, quietly.

Another boom sounds in the distance. History repeats itself.

She and her friend shove themselves into a corner, far away from the other kids, unseen by the adults. 

Can you come over on Friday?

I’ll have to ask my mom.

Well, duh. 

They laugh. Tug at each other’s braids. History repeats itself.

We can watch Scooby-Doo.

We always watch Scooby-Doo.

So?

What if I’m sick of it?

You’re sick of it?

Maybe.

That’s not possible.

Eventually, she goes back to class. Adds and subtracts, writes her name in looping letters, watches her teacher pace with dark eyes.

The flower sits by her shoe, a perfect ornament, the entire rest of the day. It reeks of smoke, but every so often, she catches just the barest hint of flowery, fresh pollen wafting up.

She inhales deeply.

The bell rings.

She balances the flower in her hand.

When she leaves the building and makes her way through the parking lot, her mother hunched over her protectively, the flower slips out of her grasp.

She tries to yank out of her mother’s arms, words flying out of her mouth as she tries to explain, tries to convey that she was holding the flower so loosely because she did not want to crush its beautiful petals, she didn’t want to damage the stem, and now it’s on the ground! It will be stepped on! Her friend gave that to her, held her hand, and she needs that flower-- she needs it, but her protests are cut off by a siren. Another boom.

Loud and whooping, grating against her ears, hammering against her ribcage.

Her braid falls out, the rubber band hitting the ground soundlessly.

She starts crying.

Twisting, trying to spot the flower among the flurry of sandals and boots and worn sneakers. Crying. Hair flying into her face.

Her mother mistakes her crying for the flower as something else.

She holds her close.

History repeats itself.