You, the last one standing. You remember the oaks. The pines. The spark. The heat. The hunger of a violent wind. You remember the match. The cigarette. The smolder. The silent scream of moss and leaves. You remember birds flapping. Deer running. Squirrels burrowing. The black choke of clouds refusing to cry. The boy wraps his arms around you. You, towering over a landscape blanketed by the white ash of charred earth. You, of bark and roots and roar. You remember the seeding. The flowering. The centuries. The boy wraps his arms around you, and he says he’s sorry. Sorry. So sorry.