Awake

Sometimes I am frozen stiff in sleeplessness, waiting to thaw. In the deep of the night I stare at the cabin ceiling and sigh. A noisy crowd in my head screaming questions Should I stay?, What will happen to dad?

I cant reply.

I crawl from the bed and walk outside, onto the craggy claystone hills. Silhouettes of Ponderosa pines cover them. Tomorrows works gonna be tough. Elkridge, Montana has always been a forestry town. Five generations of the Solomon family, as rooted to the land as the trees.

My father and I live in the cabin by the logging site where we work. Im outside, hunching my shoulders in the frost. I scan the distant peaks and dream of distant cities, Seattle, Salt Lake, even New York. Im old enough, I tell myself. Ill hop on the next Greyhound bus and chase the city lights.But then I think of my old father and the hearth that is his wrinkly smile. And I think of how he speaks with a love and reverence for this land that I dont think Ill ever understand. The Bitterroot Mountains, the undulating, vast spine of the earth. Generously sprouting greenery like a garlic press. He sometimes murmurs to me, Im glad you are here, Joshua. We Solomons are of the mountains. Its the right place for us.

Its a push and a pull. When you struggle upstream and they all say to go with the current. The jarring wind whips up gravel, and I shudder.

I cannot sleep tonight.

***We are strangers to our own land. This dreary mood clings to my skin. The sky is sooty and the hills are scarred. Plumes of smoke still linger over the peaks. In the mild weather of Montana the fire season comes like a spark, but it was never as bad as this. Its Sunday and the crew are looking around the logging site. Ashes among ashes. The stumps of pines line in a funeral procession, wearing charred black suits.

Were in the deep-end. Dad mutters. He kicks the singed soil. He curses at the air, breath reeking of sad bourbon. We splutter on the smoky air as we march on the charcoal earth back to the township. Dads gaze is unfocused, like a fathers as he mourns for his child.

As I walk I cant help but guiltily glance at the blackened ranges sitting on the horizon, and wonder what lies beyond them. The valuable pines that were once were proud and upright now form worthless black tangles in the dirt. The fire left nothing but some alien remnant of Elkridge. Theres a life beyond these mountains. And money.

Dad, news has it that the government are offering to relocate us. Huh.Maybe it could be nice in the city.He scowls as if I cussed at him.You know me, Jerome. I aint movin. These mountains are kind and constant to me. Six generations of Solomons. Our memories are anchored here. The same old tired rhetoric. Untrue too, seeing what the last few weeks have been like.It was just a suggestion, pa.As we walk back to the town, we are silent. The news comes on Thursday night. We are all huddled in the community centre rubbing our hands together for warmth. Buses are coming tomorrow. 150 miles to Helena, the capital, to the public housing lots. There is frenzied chatter. Gesturing. Arguments.

Damn. I have to tell him. I hate it when I see him gazing towards the hillside, perched on his chair with that empty space next to him. He seems to attract loss. But I also hate living in this stark, decaying town. And I will never love these mountains with the fervour that he does.

My heart pulses, and pulses, and pulses. The words drift from my lips. Im leaving tomorrow.He grins. What a joker Joshua is. But Im grim, stony-eyed. He realises Im not joking. The moment feels eternal as I stare out into the air. His husky voice shatters my stupor.

Youll be a damn disgrace to abandon this town. Theres work to do. We need to rebuild. And your uncle Sal says theres work at the forestry in Evansville. It aint too far from here. Were mountain people. The Bitterroots are the right place for us.

I could tell him about my feelings. My dreams of the city, of skyscrapers, lights and white-collar employment. The words tumble out instead.These mountains arent worth a lick of shit to me. He hoists his hand, but retracts it. He exhales. The fury is palpable.

I thought that the memories of my family would be forever tied to this place. Five damned generations does that mean anything to you? Enough. Wordlessly, I answer him. I spring up and march to the door. I burst outside. Underfoot crunches of gravel get faster. I start running in my fury, and the distance between us stretches larger. I pause and look over my shoulder. His words plunge through the silence like a guillotine.

Go then. You are no son of mine.

I wander the streets without a destination in mind. Finally I curl under a bus shelter and try to sleep, but my eyes water. Must be the smoke and dust.

***The bus churns onward. I twiddle my thumbs, and drum my hands on the seat, trying to coax the doubts from my head. Maybe Ill get off , get the soap-opera reunion. Grow old here and see it all regenerate. But I know these are lies.

The road passes the logging base, where the crew are rebuilding the cabins. I tentatively wave to my father. He doesnt glance back at me. He is staring in grief at the scorched land, like it is a wayward child, waiting for the day it is restored. I shout a farewell to him. He just looks and looks at the fog drifting into the hillside, as if I did not exist. Maybe he didnt hear me.

The wind rises and shakes the leaves and pours through the window. I slam it shut. I close my eyes, trying to sleep, but my fathers words are ringing.

You are no son of mine.So here I am, awake.