July 4

We're one day into the volcanic eruptions and everything feels so suffocating. Grandma and Grandpa moved into my bedroom, so I had to move into Mira and May's bedroom. I haven't shared bedrooms in a while, and it feels awful. No more privacy or time for myself.

Today was our first day of reduced meals. Mom and Mira tried to make it better by making pho. They took three packages of noodles (so that each person gets half a package) and mixed in some green onions from the pots in our house along with some canned chicken. It tasted pretty good, and I guess it made my day slightly better.

I've been thinking about the bucket list thing a lot today. I wanted to put something that would be impossible to achieve, like going skydiving or sailing across the ocean, but I think Charles is taking this seriously, so I will too. 

I can't think of anything though. The only thing I've got is the "Make Charles do something embarrassing" one and that doesn't even count because it's not specific. I don't know how to explain this, but it feels like having five choices (well four now) is just not enough to capture everything I want to do for this summer, but at the same time, it feels like too much.

I don't think I'll ever be able to see Charles again. The ash is still snowing down onto our town. We've got about two inches over the roads. It must be worse farther up north. Some of the towns would be covered in many feet of that suffocating ash.

I wonder when it'll rain. At least then the ash won't billow around every time a gust of wind passes through. 

July 5

More ash today. 

Mom and Dad went out to try to clear up the ash from the rooftops. Dad is worried that if too much ash piles up onto the roof, it might collapse. Every time that they scrape off another layer of ash, the grayish dust blossoms and enshrouds our house before settling down.

It's been getting colder too. With little sunlight reaching the ground, the temperature only seems to get cooler and cooler. In the middle of the afternoon, the temperature was in the low seventies, but that's only because we have an ocean next to us to stabilize the temperature. I would imagine that the temperatures in the Central Valley would be much colder, maybe low sixties or high fifties. 

"I told you everything was going to get bad," I said to May.

"What's your point?" May said.

"Just saying," I said.

"It's not like we could do anything about it," she said. "It happened, so yeah."

"Aren't you worried?" I asked.

"It's not like that would help anything," she said. "Just wait and everything will go back to normal. We'll probably have to go back to school and be stuck in boring classes by the time August hits."

"Plus," she added. "Didn't you always want an apocalypse to happen?"

"When did I say that?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "You were pretty obsessed with apocalyptic stuff."

I guess she's right. Everything about an apocalypse seems almost appealing. When everyone dies, it gives you a chance to start over, a fresh beginning and almost a new chance of life. The life and death stakes make life seem like it actually matters in a strange, twisted way. Like your actions have really real consequences.

But here, there's no chance at a fresh start. Mom, Dad, Mira, May, Grandpa, Grandma, and I are all stuck in the same home, trapped by the snowfall of dust. Our worlds seem to get smaller and smaller— not bigger like all apocalypses. And the worst part of all that is the life and death stakes can't be changed. It's not like a zombie apocalypse where you can just kill the zombies and win. No one can stop the volcanoes, not me, not May, not any of the scientists or governments. 

That's the worst part. The feeling that nothing you do actually matters.

July 6

At least it stopped snowing ash today.

Mom and Mira went outside today with their air masks on to try to brush ash off the plant leaves so that they'll be able to receive what little sunshine passes through the clouds. The issue is that every time that they shuffled through the garden, clouds of ash stirred up. Mom and Mira wanted to use the water from the gardening hose to clump down the ash.

That's when Mira and Dad started fighting again, breaking their fragile truce. 

"We're using the water to keep the ash down," Mira said.

"No," Dad said.

"What do you mean, no?" Mira said.

"We're not doing it," Dad said. "It's not smart."

"You know what's not smart," Mira said. "Letting the garden die because the plants can't get any sunshine."

"We don't know what's going to come after," Dad said. "We don't know if another ash storm is going to come or if we're going to run out of water. What's more important to you, keeping those plants alive even though, let's be honest, they have little chance of survival without sunlight or not dying of dehydration, or using your time and resources to do something that actually will last us through this."

"Those plants will be our only source of food when we run out of canned stuff," Mira retorted. "We have water right now. We should use it."

"We don't know what's going to happen next," Dad said. "Saving water is what we should be doing."

"No," Mira said. "What we should be doing is keeping our crops alive, so we'll have food."

"No. We're not continuing your gardening vanity project," Dad said. "This is not play-acting. This is the real deal—"

"I'm not playing. You think this is a game for me," Mira said. "I'm taking this as seriously as you are."

"If you are doing that, you should be filling up all the bottles and pots in our house."

When Mira walked away, I thought that would be the end of the conversation. But instead, she turned on the hose and began spraying the ground. Dad stormed outside. 

"Turn it off," he yelled.

"No," Mira said. "We need to save the plants."

"We're not going to do that," Dad said. "Turn it off or else."

"No," Mira said, and Dad lunged for the faucet. A gust of wind kicked up a storm of ash, and Dad began coughing loudly.

"What are you guys doing?" Mom said. "Get inside immediately."

"No," Mira said. "Not until Dad listens to me."

"Turn off the faucet Mira," Dad said.

"Listen to your father Mira," Mom said. "We will discuss this inside. Not out here."

"You guys never listen to me," Mira shouted, turning off the faucet and storming into her room. Dad looked smug with a tinge of sadness while Mom looked tired. Watching people fight can be even more exhausting than participating in them. 

Our day went on about as normally as any day would. Everyone sat inside the house doing nothing because there was nothing to do. May and I were banned from leaving the house because Mom is paranoid about inhaling ash. The SAT booklets and practice problems feel pointless right now. I mean the world looks like it's ending.

Mira missed dinner today. I knocked on her door and entered her room. "Do you want to eat?" I asked.

"No, I'm not really hungry."

"Okay," I said. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I just don't get it," she said. "Why don't Mom and Dad ever listen to me?"

I sat next to her. "Dad's idea was good—"

"So are you taking Dad's side now?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side," I said. "But objectively speaking, saving water feels more important."

I continued. "You and Dad are all so stubborn. I guess everyone in this family is a little bit stubborn, but especially you and Dad."

"I just feel like Dad never listens to anything that I say," she said. "Like none of my ideas have any merit. And Mom always just seems to agree with him."

"Dad has a way of not listening to anyone else," I said. "And it can be frustrating. But sometimes it makes him really focus on the important stuff."

"Look," I added. "You and Dad are not going to fix things easily and maybe not perfectly right now. But maybe you don't need to have everything fixed perfectly. You're an adult now. You don't need to listen to our parents anymore."

"But that's the thing. I don't know why, but I want, like really, deeply want, Mom and Dad's approval. It just makes me feel noticed or like needed."

"Maybe it's time to forge your own path," I said.

"I just don't feel like I can."

I never knew that about Mira. I always knew that she was stubborn. She was the most rebellious of all of our family, but I never knew this about her. This deep, primal longing. Maybe I don't know my older sister as well as I thought.