On a cool August evening in the San Juan Mountains
we gathered around a chiminea to make s’mores.
Chocolate and graham crackers were no match
for our family’s flaming marshmallows.
The kids shouted how best to roast puffed sugar.
We smushed sticky fingers into the bag
grabbed our prey
perfected our technique
poked sticks into the fire over and over again.
“We should sing, ‘Kumbaya,’” said Mom.
We all laughed.
It didn’t seem like a time for camp songs.
We needed sweet summer blues
during this, our last vacation together.
Mom reached her stick into the flames,
her short, marshmallow hair bleached white
by chemo. The fire of her cancer contained,
in a vessel we could still jab
devouring each bright moment,
as if her bag of marshmallows would never run out.