by Sarah Hare

Our bodies are curled up in her bed, a quilt of dancing hexagons up to our chins, Olive’s foot nestled in that soft valley between my ribs and hip bone–just as it was on the inside two and a half years ago–when she asks if it will always be this way, if she will ever be able to ride her plastic neon pink trike to the park again. 

I know she’s asking about the haze of smoke that has seeped into our sky from Canadian wildfires devouring every crumb of the land above us. I breathe in her coconut copper hair and remember that tour guide from Mexico, her wet suit clinging to her body, her plain face unphased, that recommended we visit the coral reef before it suffocates. I twist a wet strand of Olive’s curls and think of the gas I pumped earlier that day, the nozzle heavy and soiled. I think of my decision to bring her here, in this moment, for this life. 

I pause before I lie to my baby: No, it won’t always be this way.

Sarah Hare is a writer living in Southern Indiana. Her work has been published in Southeast Review, River Teeth‘s “Beautiful Things,” Mutha Magazine, and Five Minutes. In 2024, Sarah received a scholarship to attend the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing.