It’s hard to write about your city burning.
It’s hard to tell the story while you are safe, and hundreds have lost their homes.
It’s hard to talk about the fear, the uncertainty and the sadness.
A week ago, I first smelled the smoke in the air.
Tuesday night, a fire that had been largely out of sight burst over the ridge.
Suddenly, there was no denying the source of the camp fire air we had been breathing.
I drove home in tears, the sky orange around me.
I went to a dear friend’s house and sat on her couch, my hands over my mouth, in horror.
Constant stream of information, too much to take in.
“We have not lost hope,” were the words of an official.
“We have nothing but hope.”
I put my hands to my heart, claiming her words.
Wednesday morning, my chest was a knot of fear and smoke.
And still, all day, unshed tears.
For those who had lost so much.
For my city.
Finally I knew it, that Colorado Springs was my city, my home.
I knew it in time to grieve for it.
Today, the fire is still there, but tucked away again, behind the ridge.
But we have not forgotten it.
We will never forget it.
Nothing but hope.