KEIRA LYNN DODD

Tornado

 

When the whirlwind

grabbed hold

of my most

valuable

possessions,

at first I tried

to pluck them

out of the air,

the photo

albums always

out of reach,

their pages

flapping like wings,

intentionally

spinning

themselves

away from me,

the baby

teeth, the locks

of hair, mix

tapes, old

poems, silver

pendants, circlets

of gold, all

caught in a

tornado

whirling round

about until I

couldn’t see the individual

pieces.  They

became

blurs of

cliché moments

that could

belong to

anybody, so

I gave up

trying to save

anything

but myself.  I

retreated to

the basement

and hid in

the shadows.

The storm

shrieked its

warning,

causing the

others to flee

to safer

ground, while I

hunkered down

alone,

in the dark,

listening to

my world

smash itself

to pieces, unable

to calm my

breathing or

to see beyond

the black clouds

stifling the

sky.  Fortunately,

those I loved

knew the drill.

They kept

their distance,

afraid they’d

get sucked

into the

vortex of

gray dust and

broken furniture.

Soon my

house split

apart, brick

by brick, scattering

itself across

miles of square

lawns and empty

streets, until I was

eviscerated,

parts of me

impaled on tree branches

or smashed

against

buildings far

stronger than

I.  When people

finally came

looking for

me, they

found me in

fragments:

a clump

of hair, a finger-

tip, a knee-

cap, a single

eye—unblinking,

staring in

accusation at

whoever dared to

search for such a

lost cause.

Eventually,

they put me

back together,

jigsawed into a

semblance of

order, my smile

stitched onto

my face by a

professional.  When

ready, I

awakened to

death, in a bed

of my own

making, on a

comfortable quilt

of white satin,

relieved that the

tempest had

passed and that I
finally had

permission

to rest

in peace.