“Embers of Memories”
The senior center in Metlakatla stood as a beacon of warmth and camaraderie. Its wooden walls held stories etched by time, laughter, and shared cups of tea. Elderly hands had woven countless memories within those walls, and the scent of cedar lingered like a comforting embrace.
On a gray morning, the sky mirrored the heaviness in the hearts of the community. The sun, usually a loyal visitor, hid behind thick clouds. Residents shuffled in, their steps slower than usual, sensing the impending sorrow.
Mrs. Johnson, with her silver hair and twinkling eyes, arrived early. She’d spent decades volunteering at the center, knitting blankets for charity and teaching traditional Tsimshian songs. Today, she carried a basket of freshly baked bannock, a gesture of love for her friends.
As the clock neared noon, whispers spread like wildfire. Smoke billowed from the senior center’s roof. Panic surged through the crowd—a collective gasp that echoed the crackling flames. Firefighters arrived, but their hoses seemed feeble against the inferno consuming the heart of their community.
The elders stood outside, their faces etched with grief. Chief Thomas, a stoic man who’d seen generations come and go, wiped tears from his weathered cheeks. “Our stories,” he murmured, “our dances, our wisdom—all lost.”
The flames danced mercilessly, devouring the cedar beams, the hand-carved totem poles, and the cherished photo albums. Mrs. Johnson clutched her bannock basket, tears streaming down her face. “Our ancestors watch,” she whispered, “and they weep.”
Neighbors held each other, their trembling hands a testament to the bonds forged within those walls. The fire crackled, mocking their vulnerability. The elders sang a mournful song, their voices rising above the chaos. It was a lament for what was, for the irreplaceable moments that had turned to ash.
As the sun dipped low, casting an eerie glow on the charred remains, the community vowed to rebuild. They would gather new memories, weave fresh stories, and honor the legacy of the senior center. But that day—the day the flames claimed their haven—would forever be etched in their hearts.
And so, Metlakatla mourned. But from the ashes, resilience bloomed like wildflowers after a forest fire. They would rise, just as the sun did each morning, and carry the embers of memories forward.
In Metlakatla’s twilight glow, Where elders once gathered, now lost, Their spirits linger in the smoke, Guiding us through sorrow’s cost.
Notes from Alex 