Storm Once, a summer cyclone swept us up in its automatic path. Towards the last refuge we fled, Our fear pressed tight like the clothes in our frantic bags. It was new school, said to yawn should 200 prevail. We pleaded a case of necessity, With Mom and Dad being medically trained. Such was our embarkation into this happy nightmare. I, lacking anything other than compassion, Helped feed the countless people. All around us, people sprawled out in ever allowable position. Most were South Americans, Guatemalans, Whose desperation for El Norte bore them to this land. I made a circuit through the auditorium, Always passing through the kitchen to collect more plates of food. At the far side of the hall, Mom struggles with a cacophony of aches and pains. Dolor? She can translate, but not speak the rapid Spanish. The crowd lies down on their cots and blankets, Fear washes down their necks. Even shadows are squashed by the human sea, Which has now consumed the floor. Like the straining trees outside, I wobble and jump Looking for an unoccupied tile. I am grateful for this task, serving food has caused my fear to doze. Dad has been swept up by the cyclonic television, Splattering green and yellow bands across his mind. Such timid rodents, we stole a glimpse outside. The whole fabric of the night seemed to shake with each gust. Yet a lone palm tree stood a defiant symbol of good fortune. The reluctant haze of night, rolled over our anxiety, Flattening us against our Spartan beds. I watched the families go to sleep, Saw their children whisked away by a comforting shoulder. All of the Guatemalans slept, warmed by the fire of kinship. I surrendered to the dark, my fear evaporating. The palm stood against the wind, yet the wind had not overcome it. My soul had stood in the path of terror, yet terror had dissolved with the storm.
Very interesting read. It must've been a wild night. Glad to read your accounting of it, and poetry makes a good vehicle for retelling the story.
