Whenever I smell buring wood and hear a stream in the distence, it is early-august at Gunnison, and I am rosting a marshmellow over a camp fire, looking at the stars with my dad and dog,and listening to one of my fathers stories form when he was my age.

But this is not my story.

My story is watching my dad help put out a house fire, up on Florida road, sitting in his car, watching the blaze take over the kichen, then soon falling into nothing but smoke and hot coals while water is being spread everywhere. I could smell the smoke and hear the water as if I was back in the woods.