Birdsong woke me, but not my mother or siblings. I pulled on jeans and a soft sweatshirt and stepped out of the camper into the cool morning. Mist kissed my cheeks, chilled my hands. My father had started a fire; coffee burbled in the percolator’s glass top. He filled a mug, handed it to me as I sat on a log across from him. Fog tangled in the tops of pine trees, steam rose from the mug. The coffee’s heat warmed my fingers as we watched the fire, glanced at each other, and let the crackling flames speak for us.
Ashling Kelly is a writer and poet living between the Catskill Mountains and Hudson River with her partner, four cats, one dog, and many honeybees.