Haze

It has been a hazy month, but today is the worst. Today the smoke settles over the city, blotting out the sun. I feel like I can taste the air. Yesterday, before I knew about the wildfires, my throat burned after my run and the air didn’t smell right. That night the sun was pink and fuzzy in the sky.

At first the haze was from fires far away in Alberta, but now they are closer, only a few hours north of us in Quebec. The smoke is thicker, draping over the landscape, dulling everything it touches. 

This morning, filtered sun manages to reach the front porch, golden pink among the shadows. I walk my children to school, all of us wearing masks. My son tells me his eyes are itchy before I hug him goodbye.

I run the air purifier inside and wear my mask when I plant my herbs in the front garden. The soil is dry and loose and my seedlings are small and I wonder if they will grow, if they will be able to thrive here. My rain barrel is already dry, the soil is already parched and it is only the first week of June. The dahlias are sprouting, the roses are blooming, but I wonder about this growing season, a year when the sun has already lost its shape in the sky so many times, an amorphous blur in the haze.

My dad sends pictures of my hometown, the smoke a blanket over the valley, the hills barely visible. Roosters crow thinking it is early morning.

I think of the firefighters, of the people displaced because of the flames, of the animals, of the nature that is lost. 

When I pick my children up from school, it is blustery, the sky an eerie color. There is no sun now. The air smells like a campfire and I hear people coughing. My son tells me his popcorn picnic was moved inside and all baseball games are canceled.

We do not linger outside once we’re home. There’s an impromptu Tuesday movie and dinner is cut up fruit and snacks on the floor. In the evening, a storm rolls in, thunder rumbling and rain soaking the ground. We skip baths, letting our children play until bedtime. I read out loud until my daughter is asleep, her breathing slow and even.

They say that tomorrow will be better. They say tomorrow the air should be clearer, safer to breathe. But I wonder for how long, because the sun has already disappeared more times this year than I can remember.