Speeding away from the campground to the nearest hospital, I'm riding on my mother’s lap in the back of the family Volkswagen with my hands pressed between two ice packs from the cooler. It’s our first summer in this country, and we were huddled around the warmth of what we had made. The campsites my parents knew as children were all open, grassy fields, beside roads they knew by heart. But I didn’t know all this, not at five years old. I just knew to spread my hands wide as I fell. This will be the first fire I remember.
Jennifer Stark (she/they) writes from her front porch in Toronto, Canada. Her work has appeared in Popshot, Fieldfare, BRUISER, and Firewords, among others. Instagram: @jenniferstark