Andrea L. Hackbarth: We Saw Only Ghosts
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
Weather Report: Palmer, AK
All summer we saw only ghosts and silhouettes
ringing our mountain town. We grew accustomed
to a thickness on the horizon, on our tongues –
the air so thick my son couldn’t learn to ride his bike
this year. Still, we kept our faith in the unseen
presence of peaks, in their fragile immortality, as
the intermittent roar of air tankers turned our eyes
skyward – our world in every direction aflame.
All summer our parched throats prayed for rain and
when the rain came –when the blessed rain came –
we danced – our first gratitude to the sky. But now
the rain won’t stop, refuses to transform itself. The wind
blows unsettlingly warm. My son’s daily question
has changed: When will it snow? A mere three and a half
winters have sunk through his bones but he knows
the snows are late this year. I don’t know. I don’t know.
My refrain has not altered: I don’t know. None of us
know. I am your mother and I do not know.
Andrea L. Hackbarth lives in Palmer, Alaska, where she works as a piano technician. She holds a BA in English from Lawrence University and an MFA from the University of Alaska Anchorage. Some of her other work can be found in Mezzo Cammin, Temenos, Measure, and other print and online journals.
