July, 2026

Photo by Isabella de Yurre

I don’t want the smoke to be beautiful, but it is. My street is filtered in an orange glow; light diffuses through. It’s like stepping into one of those landscape paintings they used to sell at the mall, some dangerous nostalgia for a place and time that never existed. Soft and toxic, like foam.

I breathe and smell bonfire.

Decades ago, on a sandy hike in Florida, I wandered into a controlled burn. The stumps of pine trees smoldered. I was awed and alone.

Now, at home in Harlem, I’m surprised by the smoke. I didn’t know it was going to plume out like that. Long octopus arms reach down from Canada. I walk to the Cathedral to pick my sun up from camp, and the kids are sitting outside, looking wilted and breathless. The air quality, the air, is dangerous, but no one told the counselors.

The first time I remember wildfire smoke drifting to Harlem, my son was in kindergarten. I opened the window in his room to let in fresh air, then realized the sun was orange and small.

Why do I live like this? Like I’m always behind a haze? What veil, what smoke, falls before my face? What am I looking at?

What am I refusing to see?