Blaze orange is the color of my mother’s breast cancer diagnosis.
It is late September 2020. It is her birthday. The call comes during the season when men and children hunt small game and deer with bows. The year prior, she and my father had moved to this Pine Barrens retirement village, nestled up against a wildlife management area and in shouting distance of an artillery range.
There are sandy trails.
There are men wrapped in leaf-litter camo.
At night, my parents hear ATVs roaring into darkness, a trail of shimmering glass left gleaming in their wake.
When mom gets the news that rogue cells have coalesced where she once had a lumpectomy, there is a kind of blankness around it, she says.
Autumn scarlet is the color of my colon cancer diagnosis.It is late October 2024. It is the day after my wedding anniversary. The report comes via a ding on my phone as men rebuild the roof next door.
Published September 2025
Jenn Hall 