The sky is yellow, the air thick with the smoke of wildfires blown in from Canada. My ten-month-old Jessa stands at the window, desperate to swim after her nap. Her pool sits on the deck, the glistening water warmed bath-hot by the sun. We haven’t gone outside in days. The pool is blue-beautiful, but I know that ash, melted plastic, benzene have settled on the bottom. A garter snake slithers past the nasturtiums lining the fence. Ticks wait, hungry, in the tall grass of our yard. “Sorry, it’s yucky out.” Jessa bats at my face, sticks her fingers into my mouth and twists. I hoist her onto my hip, and the prism hanging in the window projects a rainbow across her nose.
