26 October 2011

not-yet-titled; 06 october 2011.


The tornado came and went, and when it left it took almost all of Eighth Street with it.  It took the paint from Mark’s new, red Camaro.  It took the glass from Mrs. Smith’s vase collection.  It took the toilet from the Sandersons’ powder room.  The crops from Farmer Wilson’s fields.  The embroidered pillows that belonged to Amy’s grandmother.  Pastor Jim’s marked up Bible he used in sermons every Sunday.
            But it didn’t take all of Eighth Street.  In the confusion and panic of the moment, the tornado forgot to take some things with it.  And so, Eighth Street claimed what it could of the remains.
            It claimed the single-story homes that were now single-wall homes.  It claimed the white-wood trees, stripped clean of any bark.  It claimed the shattered glass mosaics that paved the roads and lawns.  The bottle of hot sauce in the Jameson’s vegetable garden.  The walker on top of what was left of the elementary school’s roof.  The cherry-stained crib lying next to the corner stop sign.
            And what had the tornado not seen at all?
            The sunflower garden in the Waynes’ backyard.  For had the tornado seen the beautiful garden, it surely would have taken each flower with it.
            But there they stood: tall, proud, and unharmed – wondering how they could possibly have been overlooked by the tornado.  Surely it was big enough and had covered a wide enough area that the flowers would have been seen?
But no, they had simply been forgotten in the chaos and confusion.  So each flower head stretched itself up and out to reach the sun that shone down on Eighth Street.

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