The Fire

         In Colorado, a beautiful state full of pines nestled up against mountains iced frostily with snow, lies the home of one of the most devastating fires in recent history. I remember clearly because I was there, not far from the center of the inferno, in a little town named Sheridan.



         I was gathering up my things when the sirens started. I didn’t need their warning, the smell filled the air, burning my nostrils, making my lungs fight for breathable air. I shoved the remaining clothes into my suitcase, dumped the motel’s drawer of my underclothing on the top, and slammed the lid down. A single cursory sweep of the room concluded my farewell. I tossed the room key on the bed and shut the door.

         I was heading home. No siren had to blare at me to denote a bad decision; disaster dwelt in every moment of my stay. The experts were right; an on-line relationship created a trip to nowhere.

         My case was heavy. Once carefully packed -- the labor of restless nights of worry over whether this outfit or that would give the right impression -- was by that point an untidy heap of chaos, as much a reflection of the confusion of my mind as my hurry to get out and away. I heaved it into the trunk of the rented car and paused to scan the horizon.

         The sky should have been black, speckled by a sprinkling of stars whose beacons of light usually offered me hope, but there was no sign of them. The horizon was lit in ruddy orange and umber -- colors that added drops of fear to my gloomy thoughts.

         Inside the car, I turned the radio to a station giving the news. Warnings were in full issue. The reports kept repeating that the fire was raging out of control -– like I didn’t know that! I listened to the road closures with my finger on my map.

         Where was David at this moment? Was he picking up his life and shoving it into suitcases, running from the fire or calmly sitting in front of the Internet, locating another foolish girl -- one who would meet all his needs?

         As I drove, the tears spilled out; I hoped they were healing me, letting me bridge the gulf between fallen dreams and harsh realities.

         The aspen trees were lit up like candles flaming into the sky. Deer were fleeing. My tires shrieked as I slammed on the brakes, almost ramming a deer that streaked across the road.

          I sat for a moment where I'd pulled off. I was breathing heavily, in shock at the closeness of my miss.

         I calmed enough to check the horizon. The fire seemed even closer. For the first time I noticed that there were no other cars on the road. The isolation as much as the approaching blaze sent tendrils of alarm down my spine.

         I started to ease back onto the road. As I did, a rabbit panicked and froze in the car's lights. He stared at me, his eyes wide and frightened. Then he bolted into the night, veering like a drunken runner.

         I gazed after him, watching the shifts of his leaps. I wondered if his flight was from me or the orange glow in the sky with its dark haze of smoke. I whispered a prayer for both of us and drove on.

         The police stopped me just outside of Denver. I couldn’t get through, they told me, nor could I double back. They made me leave my rental car and journey on with them. In a supposedly safe retreat, they left me. I stumbled inside, suitcase in hand, coughing.

         Wouldn’t you know it! His was the first face I saw. Some twenty others had all holed up inside the inn, yet, he was the only one I noted.

         “David,” I whispered, and he rose and came to me.

         He took my hand and led me to the side. The others blurred. The raging fire, the sirens, my fear, they all slid away. His eyes were green -- emeralds as vibrant as aspen leaves on a normal day.

         “I tried to call you,” David said. “The lines were down. I drove to the motel, but you were gone. You must have taken the main route...”

         I nodded. His words brought back countless e-mails and hour-long phone calls. Inside me, my heart pounded.

         “We got off to a bad start, Lisa. I wish we could begin again," he said softly

         At that moment I could no longer remember what had gone wrong between us. Five months of daily conversations... how could I have so easily forgotten them? Why had I erased the dreams we'd shared? Had it only been the shock of finally meeting him?

         I couldn’t understand why the feel of his fingers woven into mine seemed suddenly so comfortable, and why his face seemed so familiar. When I closed my eyes, I remembered how much I loved him. He was David, the one I knew intimately through his thoughts and the connection of our words...

         We had met three times in a restaurant. Cold conversation, strangeness, dislocation – how had I allowed that to sour what we’d built up for so long?

         The inn had rooms. We withdrew to one. Some would say that what we did was wrong. It was risky, and we gambled. But it was right.

         The fire raged among the aspen trees. The sirens blared their warnings. The deer fled in fear as the blaze licked at their hooves. It was a terrible conflagration. Many lives were lost, but in the Inn of the Aspen Trees, private fires soared, and those flames offered no threat to others.

         Internet relationships are dangerous. They are unsafe ventures. David and I proclaim that from our forest home computers, but we also remind people that from the ashes of fire, the phoenix rises. Then we smile at each other because together we write stories of romantic fantasy where such imaginary creatures are prevalent.

         Yet no matter the reality you live within, it must be remembered that although a fire destroys everything in its path, certain seeds are opened, and among the ashes, sometimes, brand new growth is fostered.