โEverything Is Still
We follow the creek path west twisting and turning with the water until unfolding
across a footbridge.
A hawk soars on air currents.
A prairie dog chirps an urgent warning.
We trek up and over a hill down past the cemetery
to the fork at the road that leads to Lewistown,
the little neighboring town.
We walk along the shoulder of the road but soon
realize our foolishness and walk right down the center on the double yellow line.
โImagine, George.
Weโre part of the Rose Parade and this line is the parade route.
We have to follow it exactly until we get to the very end, but
be careful not to step in horse manure.
Think of what those marching
band members have to walk through when they follow the horses every year. Kind of hard to march and play a tuba while watching for horse turds
at the same time.โ
George prances beside me glancing up
wagging his stumpy tail.
A few more miles and the yellow line leads us to the intersection
of the cemetery road
and Lewistownโs main street.
South toward the baseball diamond nothing moves.
North toward the businesses everything is still.
โCome on, buddy. Letโs see whatโs happening.โ
โLewistown
the French bakery the guitar shop
the outdoor ice-skating rink
I learned to skate there as a little girl holding Dadโs hands.
Clinging to his legs when the evening train rushed by
on the tracks east of the rink.
I conjure the hot, sweet scent of kettle corn. The weight of heavy, wet mittens.
Across the street is the carousel.
Endangered tigers, elephants sea turtles, arctic wolves.
I circumnavigate the platform from animal to animal.
George picks his way along
the planks of the floor behind me.
I climb into an old-fashioned sleigh pulled by two polar bears.
George sniffs the giant panda nearby then settles on the floor at my feet.
sounds of calliope music
young mothers and fathers lifiing tiny children onto the animalsโ backs laughing when the carousel jolts to life
I will the wooden slats in the ceiling to rotate slowly at first then faster
until I get dizzy and close my eyes.
carousel picks up speed
everything pulls slightly toward center
world whirls animals come alive
music grows louder, dissonant animals growl and snort
carousel twists and dips drops hard and fast jerks me awake
Twilight is fading.
The railroad tracks gleam
in the light of the rising moon. Nearby, a cricket sings.
George lifis his head and cocks his dark ears.
My head still swirls, but the earth at least, is still.
My muscles remember the pack of dogs and my senses tune to threat.
I step down from the carousel. George stands and stretches.
Jumps down afier me.
Everything is quiet. Darkness settles around us. Even the cricket is still.
โWell, Georgie, we better head home while we have the moonlight.
Iโm sorry I kept us out so long.โ
George dances a circle and falls into step.
I climb the embankment to the railroad tracks.
We walk in silence watching the moon rise timing our strides to the span of the railroad ties. Bats dart and dodge high above our heads.
A great horned owl hoots.
Its mate answers in the distance. Gravel crunches beneath our feet.
We turn off the tracks and head toward the path.
Ten more minutes and we are back again in our own neighborhood
heading for home.
โSummer
Oppressive heat.
We sleep in the basement to stay cool.
Leave windows wide open.
Hope for breeze. The sun pounds the town.
We stay inside subterranean, like prairie dogs in
our underground den.
โWorries
Since the tornado, Iโm terrified of getting sick or hurt.
I remember the pantry
at Great-Grandmaโs house.
The bloated top of an ancient can of potted meat.
Botulism.
I check every can of food for bulging or bad smells.
How long do canned goods stay edible? Do pasta and rice go bad?
Boiling food only adds to my water concerns.
Weโve finished all the drinking water from the supermarket.
Weโre raiding bottled water from local gas stations around town.
Every time I ride anywhere on my bike I make a point of coming home with
at least one new case of water.
The supermarket still has
a few jugs of distilled water
but I donโt know if itโs safe to drink and I keep forgetting
to look it up at the library. If things get really bleak
I suppose weโll just have to risk it.
Each day I grow more concerned about what will happen if
our food and water supplies run out. I read expiration dates.
Organize our food stores to ration cans with the longest shelf lives.
I continue scavenging
through homes and businesses but I worry about the day
those supplies will be gone too.
Every once in a while I find
a vegetable garden still producing a few carrots or radishes
from earlier seasons.
I cook a pumpkin I find growing in an old compost pile
but the recipe in Momโs cookbook calls for baking the pumpkin before mashing it and all I can do is chop it up and boil it.
The whole endeavor turns out to be
much more work than I anticipate and the results donโt taste very good.
I search for fresh fruit from the trees around town
but last autumn
the fruit was either too sour or too wormy.
Itโs hard not to worry.
โStorm
We are swimming at the lake when a storm rolls in.
I am in the water.
George runs back and forth along the length of the dock barking at me.
We both hear thunder.
Clouds amass above the foothills. Jagged lightning divides the sky.
I remember soccer coaches calling everyone off the field during practice.
The whole team gathered under
the picnic shelter to wait for thirty minutes before heading back out.
The hairs on the back of Georgeโs neck stand up as more thunder rumbles over us.
I swim to the dock.
Pull myself out of the water. Grab backpack, towel, shoes. Run for home.
Hot drops of rain pelt the street.
I fall into the rocking chair on the porch.
Towel my hair.
George whines and looks at the door asking to be let inside.
I rub him between the ears.
โOh, Georgie, so brave in the face of looters and yet so scared of a little thunder.โ
We retreat indoors.
โConflagration
It rains throughout the afiernoon.
Occasional claps
of thunder and lightning.
The brittle, dry land sighs with relief
at the welcome showers.
Lightning continues through the night patterns of light
on the walls of the basement where we lie
listening to the storm.
I am shocked awake
by a sudden explosion of thunder blinding light.
George barks and whines. I reach for him.
The smell of ozone wafis through the air.
โItโs okay, Georgie. I think lightning must have struck pretty close, thatโs all.
Thatโs an awful smell.โ
I head upstairs
out into the front yard. The rain has stopped but the wind is blowing.
No moon.
I canโt see until lightning and thunder strike again
painting everything in a flash of brilliant clarity and deafening noise.
Again, the ozone smell fills the air.
An orange light glows in the sky behind my motherโs roof.
I stare.
Try to reconcile moving light in the middle
of so much darkness.
Then the ozone smell is replaced with smoke.
โGeorge! Itโs a fire!โ
โIt Happens So Fast
Back into the house. Dining room.
Kitchen.
Out into the backyard.
Beyond the fence in the open space a huge cottonwood tree is ablaze.
A dark scar mars the side where lightning struck.
Flames lick the branches. Encircle the trunk.
The wind picks up.
A giant limb crashes onto the split-rail fence and the fence catches fire.
Sparks and embers rise into the sky.
The fire travels.
Engulfs my brothersโ fort in the corner maple tree.
Burning two-by-fours fall to the ground. Now the maple is ablaze too.
The fire consumes the fence.
Eats its way around
the perimeter of the yard toward the house.
It happens so fast I donโt think about the possibility
that I might be in danger.
The wind blows in from every direction. This fire is famished.
It swallows the length of the fence then leaps to the Nortonsโ house.
Within minutes itโs licking their second-story windows.
Sparks blow from the Nortonsโ house to our roof.
โGeorge! Come!โ
โWhat to Save?
We run back into the house. Stand there.
I donโt know what to save.
family photos? artwork on the walls?
What meaning does any of it have if no one ever comes back again?
My water supply and food are in the garage but the mudroom door is hot to the touch and I choke on smoke billowing up
from the crack underneath. The garage is already on fire.
I run back into the living room. Find my shoes.
My backpackโs on the floor where I dropped it.
I grab it
slam open the front door
and drag George out of the house.
โAshes, Ashes
for hours weโre hypnotized watching our home
and houses up and down the block devoured, consumed, destroyed
the fire is ravenous
but flames never reach over here across the street where we sit paralyzed
in the heat
the wind dies down the rain resumes douses everything
drowns the last of the flames
thick, white smoke rises from burnt-out foundations
skeletons of cars sit
black and unrecognizable where garages stood
my skin is plastered with wet ash the taste of smoke coats
my mouth and nose
the sun rises alien and green
on the smoky horizon
Iโm filled with despair for all Iโve lost
my brothersโ fort
the yard where Mom married Paul the first home baby Trevor ever knew obliterated
and my supplies of food and fuel my momโs van
the bicycle with the trailer all destroyed
now I am truly stuck here
I can surely find another bike
but
what are the chances Iโll find another car that will still start afier two years and
two winters
any flirtations I had with making my own way
back to civilization burned to the ground
along with my neighborhood
stand up
limbs unfold sti๏ฌy
pull my backpack over my shoulders tug at Georgeโs collar
he lies still on the porch follows my movements
another tug
come on, old friend
thereโs nothing here for us now letโs go
he rises slowly
the trauma of the fire has aged us both overnight
together we walk into the smoky sunrise toward the lake trail to Dadโs house
โAftermath
The smell of smoke lasts for days.
Momโs street is not the only one destroyed. Lightning caused fires all around Millerville. Dozens of houses burned.
I have to throw away my clothes. Even my backpack reeks.
As I empty everything out
my hand closes around something
wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the pack.
A flattened Twinkie.
A fossil from my duplicitous life Before Evacuation.
I stretch out on a blanket in the shade close my eyes, and eat the spongy cake.
It tastes as if nothing has changed.
โTreasure
Afier Momโs house
is reduced to cinders I search everywhere for signs of her.
I scour Dadโs house from top to bottom hunting for anything
she might have touched.
I find a birthday card she wrote to Jennifer.
Discover a stash
of my elementary school tests and reading logs.
Use my finger to
trace Momโs signature over and over again.
The greatest treasure is a postcard she
sent me from Washington, DC, when I was little. She printed in block letters so
I could sound out the words by myself.
I tuck the card in my pocket next to Elliottโs book report. I carry it with me wherever I go.
โPostcard
THE BLOOMING CHERRY BLOSSOMS MAKE MY HEART HAPPY, JUST LIKE YOU DO. SOMEDAY IโLL BRING YOU TO WASHINGTON SO YOU CAN SEE THEM FOR YOURSELF.
I LOVE YOU, MY MADDIE GIRL! XOXO, MAMA
โTantrum
Night is the hardest.
I stay busy during the day gathering food and supplies.
Night, though, my mind is
more busy with fears than tasks.
I try praying a few times but I feel self-conscious and awkward.
I find a spiral notebook and a pen and write a letter
to God instead.
I remember Momโs strict rules for How to Be a Good Correspondent. Always start with gratitude.
Dear God,
Just in case you had anything to do with it (and if you do actually exist), thanks for helping save George and me from the fire, and for helping us find food and water
and all the stuff we need every day. We appreciate all the help we can get.
Adjust the solar garden light. Stare at the wall.
Why the hell havenโt you rescued me yet?????
Cross it out. Try again.
Why the hell havenโt you rescued me yet?????
I was wondering if you might be able to give me some help down here? I mean, if there is any way you could manage a little miracle and
GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE I WOULD APPRECIATE IT!!!!!!
I mean, seriously, God, am I being tested or something?? What more do you want from me???
Iโm doing my part. Iโm keeping us alive. When are you going to show up and start contributing a little, huh? Would it really be that hard, in light of everything else youโve supposedly accomplished?
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU????
Heat roils in my chest.
I hurl the pen and the notebook across the room
knock books and knickknacks off the dresser and
onto the floor.
I storm into the kitchen open the cupboard
and pick up a stack of dinner plates.
Slam out the back door into the dark yard
and throw each plate as hard as I can
against the cinder-block wall at the back of the property.
The sound of shattering ceramic echoes off the neighboring houses.
When all the plates are broken I run back inside and gather up as many drinking glasses
as I can carry.
When they are smashed to pieces I go back once more and
drag out all the empty bottles.
When everything has been reduced to sharp shards scattered across the dead grass
I collapse on the back stoop.
The dark braces for more. Holds its breath.
The ground glitters with broken glass.
A cricket breaks the silence. An owl hoots. Another echoes a response.
A bullfrog sings nearby.
A black nose pushes under my elbow.
โHey there, big guy. Iโm sorry if I scared you.
Youโre going to have to go out to pee in the front yard from now on.
Too much broken glass out here.โ
Iโm no longer fuming just exhausted.
I have no complaint with God.
If God exists
itโs entirely possible that
I have him or her to thank for helping us survive
as long as we have.
I can throw all the tantrums I want and it doesnโt change a thing
or bring my parents back.
I am the most ancient teenager
on the planet.
โRebuilding
Everything seems flammable and we are jumpy and anxious.
George leaves the room whenever I strike a match.
I raid the kitchen at the megachurch.
Load a neighborโs red wagon with enough water
to last several weeks at Dadโs house.
Try to rebuild our food stores but without Momโs van stocking up for winter
will take much longer.
I pull the wagon breaking into houses businesses
up and down the streets systematically searching for food
water firewood
Some houses still smell awful
from the carcasses of dead pets or rotted food.
Others seem almost normal as if someone were just there or stepped out for a moment.
As the days get hotter I scavenge enough
to feel cautiously optimistic about our prospects for surviving another winter.
โCan Opener
George loves the can opener and the bounty it liberates every night for his dinner.
I do not share his enthusiasm.
Afier so many months of eating nothing
but canned goods
fresh food is a memory Iโve forgotten.
My tongue has amnesia.
My teeth wouldnโt know what to do with anything firmer than
a chickpea.
Food is fuel. Nothing more.
no pleasure no flavor
Everything cooked. Everything sofi.
Reduced to salty or sweet.
Indiscernible from one can to the next.
Only minor variations in color or texture.
chunky or soupy mushy or meaty
One night I dream I am eating a grilled cheese sandwich
with fresh tomato and three kinds of cheese on sourdough bread.
In the morning, my pillowcase is wet with drool.
โGarden
An idea plants itself in my brain.
Grandpa always had a summer plot in the community garden.
I ride to their apartment and rifle
through drawers in the kitchen and pantry until I find a bundle of faded seed packets held together with a stiff old rubber band.
Do seeds expire?
I spread them on the kitchen table.
Zucchini Radishes Marigolds Carrots Spinach Tomatoes Cauliflower Zinnias
Read the backs of the envelopes and am crushed to see
I should have started the seeds
indoors two months ago.
Apparently growing seasons are specific.
Should I wait until next spring?
Is it really possible I could still be here next spring?
Photos on the front of the packets make my mouth water.
Even the flowers look delicious.
I decide to try half now and save half for the future
whatever the future turns out to be.
โFarmer Girl
Once again the library saves the day.
Provides everything I could ever hope to learn about how
to plant and tend a vegetable garden.
(Back in civilization when I grow up
I think I might want to be a librarian.)
No time to waste so I get right to work.
Use Grandpaโs plot for luck.
The garden is so neglected and overgrown itโs hard to tell it was ever anything
but a vacant lot full of tumbleweeds.
I am undeterred.
The thought of fresh homegrown vegetables wakes me each day like an impatient rooster.
By the end of the week
I am sunburned and so sore from all the weeding and clearing and digging
and bending and hoeing but Iโve done it and my seeds are in.
I write the names of each vegetable on Popsicle sticks to mark the rows.
I haul water from the lake.
I even make a scarecrow out of an upside-down rake, a flannel shirt and a pair of overalls.
The birds donโt seem to care but it scares George.
optimism satisfaction pride
Unfamiliar feelings take root in the soil of my tired soul.
โSeedlings
The radishes are sprouting! I have created life.
I feel like God.
โTwenty-Five Days Later
I sit in my garden
on an upside-down bucket holding a warm, white radish.
I brush away the dirt and marvel
at how perfectly exquisite it is.
It smells like earth and life
and prosperity.
It tastes like euphoria and hope
and laughter.
the bite the crunch the tang the sweet
I roll it on my tongue until my stomach
gets jealous and demands satisfaction.
It does not disappoint.
โWatercolor Sky
Starts to drizzle.
There is no thunder or lightning. It just rains. And rains and rains.
The scorched little town is thirsty.
The cool moisture is a welcome change.
Washes away the trauma of fire and devastation. Nourishes the growing garden.
Like a blessing.
โDeluge
Afier losing count of rainy days I hear a sound I havenโt heard in over two years.
Water running in the house.
I look in the bathroom and the kitchen
half expecting to see a tap lefi on
but find nothing.
I go down the stairs to the basement
which is hardly more than an unfinished storage space.
Water gushes up
from a drain in the floor.
I grab a bucket
but the thick, muddy water bubbles in faster than I can bail.
More water pours down the walls from under tiny basement windows.
It is as if the earth has
drunk its fill and
the rain has decided to come live with me.
It moves in bag and baggage.
I have no choice but
to watch the water rise.
โA Plague of Water
I monitor the basement constantly.
The water rises well above the bottom steps
before the rain outside finally lets up.
I pull on my fatherโs slicker and Jenniferโs rain boots.
Venture out, leaving George at home safe and dry.
Streets are rivers.
Yards are cluttered with debris. Hubcaps. Porch furniture.
Broken fence posts.
Everything is littered with leaves, branches, mud.
Where my garden was there is now a pond. Popsicle sticks float on the surface.
Ducks paddle around my scarecrowโs knees. The sky is the color
of bruises. Matches the hue of my new mood.
โFlash Flood
I pick my way to the trail. Hike up the rise above the bike path and
look down on the creek.
A stream once narrow enough to jump across is now a torrential river dozens of feet wide rushing with a ferocity Iโve never seen.
Bridges and paths are washed away.
Fences are pushed over or gone.
Roads are wiped out
leaving jagged edges of asphalt like broken teeth in
a gaping mouth.
A red barn door crashes past spins around
jams against the bottom of the train trestle
creating new obstacles for
the water to pummel and thrash. A pair of tractor tires tumbles by like toys in a bathtub.
I start to back up but
the deep muck wants to suck the boots off my legs.
I tug my foot
lose my balance and slip down the embankment toward the rushing rapids.
I scream
but the roar of the water drowns my voice.
And thereโs no one here to hear me.
โTrapped
I grab
at tufis of grass as I slide
down
the muddy bank but
my hands canโt
grip
and I fall into
the torrent.
I come up sputtering head
above water shoulders out but
my foot lodged
between two rocks. The current
slams me
like a battering ram against
a concrete retaining wall.
Iโm trapped.
Even as the river
pins me again and again I feel it
rising.
I have to
get out of here or
I will die.
โRope
tree branch rope swing
big knot draped over pipe on wall
reach
out of water up
farther fingers barely graze
too high
one foot stuck one free
brace against rock pull hard
harder
foot wonโt budge
wiggle toes in boot wiggle pull wiggle
pull pull pull
foot starts to slide
cry out
deep breath pull
more until foot
escapes boot water slams body against
wall breathe
brace
feet on rocks count three push
up reach stretch up reach
rope unhooks! swings
way out across river away
water slams body
watch arc breathe wait brace push reach
grab rope! hold hard tight
pull push climb push climb pull pull push up out up out
to safety
โWrung Out
I drag
hands and knees up
the muddy bank.
Collapse in the
soggy grass. Exhausted. Shivering.
Ghost water still slams me slams me against the wall.
My muscles donโt know Iโm safe. Iโm safe.
I donโt feel safe.
I canโt hear anything over the rush
of the angry flood.
The din and vibration of the rabid river expand into my chest and my throat.
Grief presses on the backs of my eyes and blinds me.
I wail
hugging myself rocking.
โOf Course
of course
I am alone so no one hears me cry
comes to comfort or help me
of course they donโt
they canโt because they arenโt so of course they donโt
there is no they
the river stole my boots
my socks
my feet are gashed and bloody
my hands are raw
rope-burned rock-sliced
but there is nothing to do
of course
except haul myself up from the ground and
go home
โParable
Home in bed
embraced in my comforter
curled around sweet, steady George I remember a parable
from a friendโs bar mitzvah.
A man who drowned in a flood arrives in heaven, angry that God didnโt save him. God reminds
the man that he sent him rescuers in a canoe, a rowboat, and a helicopter, but the man kept telling the rescuers, โNo, God will save me.โ He was too foolish to recognize Godโs help.
Itโs one thing to stay alive.
Iโm managing that with or without Godโs help.
But how much longer can I stay sane? How much more can I bear alone?
Elliottโs words
float through my brain.
โI think if I were the Challenge Girl, it would be even harder for me to be alone for all that time.โ
The challenges of fires and floods
can be overcome with courage and wit, but this feeling of loss and loneliness might just prove too great to endure even for this Challenge Girl.
โAfter the Flood
The world is strange.
A floating propane tank tumbles downriver crashes into a boulder and explodes.
Wild animals
wander through town disoriented and displaced from flooded habitats.
And rattlesnakes invade the neighborhoods
in search of dry ground
afier their culverts overflow.
Afier surviving so much for so long
I swear
I will not die
from a stupid snakebite or an encounter with
a mountain lion. When weโre outside
I ring the cowbell from Dadโs bike races.
Stay to the center of streets.
Eyes peeled
for anything coiled or crouched.
Ears tuned
for rattles or growls.
When the cold weather finally arrives and sends the snakes into hibernation I exhale for the first time in centuries.
โAnother Birthday
I do not celebrate. Push aside all feelings about turning fifieen.
Every day is just another
to withstand and overcome. Every night is just a Pyrrhic victory of survival.
Emma and Ashanti already had their birthdays.
I didnโt remember.
If a birthday falls in the forest
but thereโs no one there to celebrate do we still get older?
โOctober
First snowfall.
Ongoing hunt
for food and fuel.
Basement waterโs gone but leaves a nasty smell.
The creek is swollen
but has receded some.
I wonder if it will freeze completely or flow
through the winter.
โAcceptance
(n.) the act of believing; coming to terms with something; recognition
โSanctuary
I love the library.
My own personal book church. Safety.
But Iโm losing patience with fiction. The challenges and triumphs of fictional characters only make me feel worse about myself.
Novels end nicely and neatly with all obstacles overcome. Loose ends tied up.
My own story just keeps unraveling with a depressing predictability.
In fourth grade, Mrs. Hawkins taught us three kinds of literary conflicts:
humans against humans humans against nature humans against themselves
I donโt need to read novels to understand the challenges of human survival.
Donโt tell me about tragic heroes on epic quests. I am Penelope
weaving the days away waiting for Odysseus to return.
โEmily
I hated poetry in school but for some reason I love browsing in the poetry section.
There is something about poetry being nonfiction
but not factual.
The most intimate personal thoughts
โthings people would never dream of saying out loud in middle schoolโ
right there on the page in black and white.
I choose books based on the titles and whether the poetsโ names sound like people I might like.
e. e. cummings is a rebellious teenager who refuses to follow any rules
and Billy Collins is an eleven-year-old kid who lives next door.
I wonder if T. S. Eliot is a man or a woman.
One day
Iโll go to college with poetic friends sit in coffee shops
โwrite stories about
the olden days of theย imminent threat
the trials and tribulations I endured.
I want a poetic friend to keep me company explore alongside me
help me forage for food and fuel. I run my hands along the spines looking for womenโs names.
I find Emily Dickinson. The book falls open.
โHopeโ is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –
Well, thatโs true.
I have never stopped hoping
my parents will come back for me or at the very least
someone will pass through town and rescue me.
But there are many days when the act of hoping feels even more di๏ฌcult
than the never-ending work of
gathering food and fuel.
If Emily Dickinson is right and
hope is a bird perching in my soul then my hope hovers
on the verge of flying away at any moment.
โMaryโ
With Emily in my backpack
I move farther down the aisle toย New and Selected Poems
by Mary Oliver.
The woman on the cover
gazes at something out of view as if she doesnโt know
she is a poet and
she is being photographed for the front of a book jacket. She looks pensive.
I open to a random page.
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I meanโ
the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and downโ who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifis her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I donโt know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesnโt everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
I mark the page with my finger flip the book closed
so I can study
the author photograph again.
I search Mary Oliverโs face for a clue about what drew her attention
off to the side of the camera.
I open to the poem again study the words on the page.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fieldsโฆ
I have learned to pay attention too.
All the time Iโve spent combing this town
for every salvageable
piece of food bottle of water
possible stick of firewood.
I pay attention to the weather and the seasons
to whatโs growing whatโs dying
how much daylight is lefi in an afiernoon.
If I didnโt pay attention I would have
frozen or starved to death
a long time ago.
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fieldsโฆ
Iโve been idle sometimes. Have I been blessed?
I have certainly been lucky
not to have been injured or killed to have survived this long alone
despite the fact that Iโm only fifieen and I should be thinking about dating and
homework and Friday night football games not scavenging for food
and wondering if Iโll survive another winter.
Doesnโt everything die at last, and too soon?
Doesnโt everything die at last Doesnโt everything die
too soon? Oh my God.
I canโt believe this never occurred to me before.
Is it possible they havenโt returned because they didnโt survive?
Could they have died not knowing that I had been lefi behind?
Could they really have died not knowing that I had been lefi behind?
It makes sense.
As painful as it is to even think the thought it explains
everything.
โnovacula Occami
Something must have happened to my parents. Somethingย didย happen to my parents.
Otherwise they would have returned by now.
There is no scenario I can dream up
in which my parents discover I am missing and donโt immediately come for me.
Even a foreign attack on the government couldnโt stop them.
A quiet truth grows up from the core of the earth and into the core of my body.
Iโm not sure how I know, but I do.
I even try to go back to
how I felt a few minutes ago.
Try to believe they are out there somewhere coming for me.
But I canโt.
There is no doubt in my mind.
They are never coming back.
โNothing and Everything
The knowledge that my parents are dead changes nothing about my daily life.
Winter is still coming and I still have to prepare.
What has changed is my anxiety and sense of urgency.
They are gone.
I used to worry about
wandering too far from the house or missing a rescue party
but I donโt anymore.
I work hard during the day and sleep well at night.
No more nightmares. Sometimes I even sing.
Itโs not that I donโt grieve the loss
of my family or feel the acute emptiness of being so alone.
Itโs just that my grief and loneliness are no longer burdened by hope
that things will change.
I canโt control the future and
Iโm powerless over everything except whatโs happening
right in front of me.
If rescue comes, it comes. If it doesnโt, it doesnโt.
โEven Still
I can still bathe
in the light of the moon as it rises huge
and orange in the east and in the
expanse of constellations that spill across the sky on a clear, cold night.
I can still marvel at a hawk
soaring overhead
with a snake in its talons. I am still here.
โCeconciliotion
(n.) the act of restoring to harmony; resolution; reunion
โWild and Precious
Iโm o๏ฌcially in love with Mary Oliver.
I envy the confidence of her poems
and I draw strength from the possibility that I, too, might one day understand my place in
the natural world.
I am certain
that the question
she asks at the end of โThe Summer Dayโ
is intended just for me:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
I donโt know
what might be in store down the road
but I know I wonโt waste another day agonizing over
what I canโt control.
I am going to make sure
my one wild and precious life is spent living as fully and completely as I can
and if that means living alone with an aging rottweiler
and eating canned food until Iโm an old woman so be it.
โBlizzards
I have to dig a path for George to go out to pee. Sometimes he just goes in the snow on the porch.
We stay warm by the woodstove.
The storms leave behind a sparkling world of ice.
The sun slices cold through the sharp blue and every tree twig, stone, fence post is enshrined in glittery prisms.
George struggles on the slick glass sidewalk
but I push off and slide for several thrilling feet.
We play in the wintry beauty until I canโt feel my toes. The sound of my laughter echoes up and down the street.
โSpring Flowers
Afier months of cold warm weather finally subdues winter.
Green sprouts emerge
out of the dark, moist earth and buds appear on branches.
In the front yard
the redbud tree explodes into thousands of
tiny purple blossoms.
Daffodil and tulip bulbs push their tenacious stems up from the ground and burst into boisterous color.
Purple larkspur grow rogue and tall from the cracks
in the middle of streets and sidewalks.
Gaillardia bloom in red and yellow clusters on
the mounds of rock and soil
that used to be the creek path.
Black-eyed Susans, purple coneflowers, and multicolored cosmos decorate alleys, yards and vacant lots.
It seems the floodwaters scattered more than debris and destruction.
They also sowed new seeds in places where flowers never used to grow.
New beginnings for the battered town. New beginnings for my weary heart.
โSummer Advice
As the days pass
and the light elongates
the temperatures reach upward and I reach back
to the poets
to Mary Oliverโs summer advice toย fall down in the grassย though the grass in Millerville grows riotously long
afier so many seasons with no tending.
Iย stroll through the fields
play with feelingย idle and blessed
ponder myย one wild and precious life
Could my life be any wilder? Or more precious?
If Emily Dickinsonโs hope isย a thing with feathers
then there are many
flocks of hope flying overhead nesting noisily
in the trees and hedges
all around.
The beginning
of my fourth year alone in this place
yet Mother Nature insists on optimism.
โAutumn Fruit
Plums fall to the earth in messy piles of red and purple sweetness.
Apricots and peaches hang like juicy jewels buzzing with bees.
Apples are so abundant their branches bow all the way down to the ground.
In the abandoned garden at Millerville Elementary School one enchanted apple tree yields six astonishing varieties.
I am a fairy-tale princess picking red, green, yellow, and blush- colored apples from different limbs of the same tree.
Teeth break skin. Tongue licks juice. Shiver-pleasure ripples through me. Fruit flesh in my mouth.
I eat my fill
and fill my pack.
โInterlopers
George wakes up stiff and limping
so I leave him home and trek out alone.
I scavenge among the orchards behind the retirement villas in my motherโs old neighborhood.
I load my backpack and am crossing the street when a loud rumbling vibrates the ground.
I freeze, unable to translate the sound. Itโs my imagination. Has to be.
I close my eyes. Will the rumbling to stop. But the sound isnโt in my head.
The whir and chop of a helicopter comes closer.
rescuedangerlootersinvaders?
โGiantโs Boot
I drop my backpack. Run as fast as I can toward the side yard of the nearest house.
Throw myself into
a cluster of spirea bushes. Tuck down into the smallest space possible.
A Chinook helicopter materializes overhead. Its great, gray body blocks the sun.
Military? Friend or foe?
When I was little Dad teased me
when formations of Chinooks flew over. I thought they looked like huge boots with propellers at each end.
Dad made up stories about a careless giant whose shoes kept flying off his feet.
Engine rumble continues. Doesnโt recede.
I crawl to the front corner
of the house.
The helicopter hovers over the lake
down past the end of the street.
I backtrack around to the backyard.
Skirt the deck. Climb over the split-rail fence.
Hug the houses. Keep ears and eyes on the sky for other helicopters.
Pick my way from yard to yard toward the end of the block and the west side
of the lake park.
Stay low in the shadows.
Cut north toward
the wetlands preserve. Scramble over the hill. Drop and belly crawl into the willow thickets on the north lakeshore. Sneak toward the water and the sound of
the helicopter.
The Chinook hovers above the lake.
Creates whitecaps
pulsing out in all directions. Hangs there several minutes.
Rises up and flies over the boathouse
on the southern shore. Lowers down again.
Disappears out of sight. Red dust clouds the air and I know it landed
on the baseball diamond behind the parking lot.
If these are looters they are far more
sophisticated and prepared than the men on trucks years ago.
If they arenโt looters this could mean rescue.
This could be the chance Iโve been waiting for
all these lonely months and years.
But they could also be invaders
from another country. Theย imminent threat?
Maybe they are the reason for the whole evacuation in the first place?
My heart slams back and forth almost as loud
as the helicopter.
I have to see whatโs happening without being seen.
โSpy
The east end lake path is the shortest
but wide open and exposed. Visible to anyone.
Nowhere to hide.
And whoeverโs on board
the chopper could just as easily be coming down the trail
from either direction. The last thing I want is to walk straight into someone
or something unprepared.
My mind works faster than my heart pounds.
Keep hidden
no matter what.
Itโs my only advantage. Canโt risk being seen until I know
what Iโm dealing with.
Stay deep in the willows. Scramble along coyote paths. Zigzag through thickets toward the west end
of the lake.
The sound of the engine cuts off.
I freeze.
Canโt hear anything but water lapping on the shore.
My own breathing.
One careful step at a time. Aware of every sound I make.
Menโs voices coming closer. Canโt discern what they say.
Voices grow louder then shifi direction and fade.
Count to fifiy. Creep to the edge of the trail.
Peek out as the men turn away from the lake
toward the east end of the neighborhood.
Wait another moment.
Dash across the trail
into a stand of cottonwood trees.
โAnd But
I will not let my fear of these unknown men
sabotage what might be my only chance at being saved AND
I refuse to let my desperate hope for rescue cloud my judgment and put myself in danger.
How many times have I been tested since the evacuation? How much more will I have to endure?
Blizzards. Looters. Tornados. Dogs. Injury. Fires. Floods.
Hunger. Fear.
And the deepest loneliness imaginable.
I have faced impossible obstacles. Conquered every challenge thrown at me.
Whether these men offer friendship or threats I can only keep George and myself safe if
I can figure out who they are
and what theyโre doing in Millerville. I am afraid of being discovered.
I am equally afraid of losing track
of where the men have gone.
The thought of being so close to other humans only to be lefi behind again is nauseating
BUT
the possibility that they might pose a threat or do me harm is downright terrifying.
From one moment to the next I donโt know which is worse.
โFlesh and Blood
follow the voices up the trail into the neighborhood
keep to the shrubbery
move from shadow to shadow stay within earshot
at the end of my motherโs block peer around the corner
see them all huddled
in the middle of the street their backs to me
unlike the looters, these men wear matching jumpsuits, boots, and caps
they walk up the street
pause to look at burnt-out remains of houses and cars
I watch ready to run
at any moment
they stop at Momโs ruined house one of the men walks forward shakes his head
pulls a handkerchief from his pocket blows his nose
turns and
for the first time I see his face
Her face.
My motherโs face looks out from under the cap.
Her hair is cut short and her eyes look exhausted but itโs my mother
flesh and blood.
I burst into tears
and then I am running, running and shouting down the street, shouting with my entire body and spirit.
My mother and the men turn toward me.
I see nothing but
my motherโs stunned beautiful face as I fly toward her
then
I am in her arms and
we are weeping together holding each other
rocking back and forth.
She is shorter and smaller than I remember
but her arms are familiar and strong and I dissolve into them
and then another set of arms encircles and embraces us both and I hear my fatherโs voice laughing and crying
repeating my name over and over.
They are here. They are alive.
They have come for me.
They have come.
โAfter-Words
their voices their questions
the touch of their hands
everyoneโs waiting they say
everyoneโs fine
theย imminent threat? it never existed
a massive land grab unprecedented fraud elections
new government
conditions returning to normal
I canโt care not yet
so many answers too many questions
there is only this
the touch of their hands skin on warm skin family skin
our skin own skin
to be held to be seen to be heard
to be known
these are the nutrients missing
from my diet
of the last three years mal-love-nourished
forgot totally what it means to be heart-quenched
soul-satiated
now it fills me feeds me
holds me stills me
with George tucked beneath my feet
and my mother and my father each holding my hands
we fly
up and over
the only home I ever had the home I forced
to feed and shelter me
up and over
the charred neighborhood the lake
the park
the town and all its buildings the houses
the schools
the ruins from flood and storm
down below
my ghost self haunts a maze of streets always searching always hunting sometimes hoping always wishing
now there is only this
they have come for me come back for me back to this home
this home that tried to kill me tried to keep me alive
they are here I am here
simultaneous impossibilities like everything
like nothing
like love
