Centralia   They wanted the coal. They knew they could sell the coal because everyone needs fire, so they built the town nearby, and all was well   until fire crept into the seam beneath their feet, rising like the hand of hell to take back everything they’d made. A wreath   of smoke arose, just wisps at first, encircling their homes, their schools. The fire was something seething and obscene in the earth’s belly, lurking,   unseen. There was nothing they could do. For years it smoldered, relentlessly working its way — sappers beneath their walls. Few   families were spared the sickness, the failure of human will to stop what is too big to stop, can never be stopped. Centralia’s   people, places, everything —                                                She turns away, takes the remote, hits MUTE as he inhales, then she returns her gaze to the cold gray   fire of the TV. God, everything’s so — she whispers through tears. Exhaling, he says Let’s see what else is on. I hate this show.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2012