Megan Roth

We burned the carpeted needles of our Christmas tree in a Coors Light box on the February driveway. The labeled cardboard glowed orange and twisted in the heat. The pine needles rolled in the wind, unphased.
"Needles don't burn." My father raised his glass to his lips, as though he'd known all along.
"Needles don't burn?" I asked. He hated this about me.
"They don't catch fire. No."
We stared at the flaming silver beer box, raining molten over the swaying needles.
"Anyone have a poem to read?" Russ, the sheepish boyfriend.
"We need a Bob Dylan song," I said, helping.
"Hudda hudddaaaaa huuudddddaaa hoooooooooooo. . ." said my father, elevating the pitch of his voice.
We all stared at the flames, equally. The pine needles rolled back and forth, to the beat of nothing.