We are curious about the fire on the side of the mountain which can be seen so clearly just a hundred yards from our house across the street.  The little kids are full of sarcastic remarks about the cause, and the dedication of the fire-fighters.  They want to know why we can't get closer... to see the flames, to smell the devastation, to step in the sweat.

In the morning a red truck pulls up and a man in faded overalls steps out to address me as I stand in the helicopter field.  He tells me that an old lady on the mountain had dumped some ashes in her garden and she's so embarrased, she's not sure if maybe she has started this fire.  

I picture her tenderly scooping the ashes from an old bucket, her delicate skin maneuvering through the air.  I see her eyes light up with tears in the passenger side of a pickup truck as she's moved to a safe location.  I see her returning to blackened landscape. 

I want to hug her.  I want to tell her that it's alright.  I want to assure her that it was just a brush fire.  And that it's better off for the land anyways.  And that God will grow all the plants back in good time.  

I want to kiss her on the forehead and apologise...for the fire on the mountain.