Epilogue: a poem of remembrance
Epilogue
by Deb LIvesay
A poem about the Joplin tornado- for those who were there, to help them remember.
For those who were not, it’s a poem to help them know what it was like.
warning: this text does contain descriptions that could be triggering for those suffering from natural-disaster related PTSD.
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The sound of all the baying hounds of hell, the whistling and clanging of the twisted wrecks of hundreds of derailed locomotives, the screaming horses of the apocalypse, the evil laughter from all our worst nightmares.
The fear that crawls through our veins, makes our hair tingle and our hearts beat sideways as we mentally map those we love, and silently beg for their safety, repeating their names in an endless litany, picturing their faces, wondering if we will see them in life again.
The pressure that threatens to simultaneously explode our brains and crush our eyeballs and implode our skulls.
The dark, not of natural night, but of having been thrown into a blender with all that we own, and with our neighbors, and all that they own.
The agony of searching, digging with bare hands, hour after hour, and wondering if it's worse to find a body, or to find nothing and maintain a shred of desperate and shrinking hope.
The frustration in the aftermath of trying to find one another; scrambling for a phone signal, trying to distinguish news from rumor, searching the faces on the cots one-by-one.
The dirt that hangs in the air for weeks and coats our skin and hair, and our tongues, and our lungs; knowing that that dirt is composed of what used to be our homes and businesses, our gardens and parks, our pets, our friends.
The feeling of being perpetually disoriented because the street signs are gone, and so are the landmarks. All that stands are the broken teeth of telephone poles and the stripped and twisted skeletons of trees.
The smell that permeates for miles beyond the epicenter, that saturates our hair and clothing, that filters into every open window and door for two solid years, and never lets us forget.
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Deb is a Joplin expat now living in Northwest Arkansas. Lately She spends her time talking to other people’s cats, washing other people’s plants, and trying to navigate a world seething with predatory Dementors. When allowed, she teaches writing and leads tiny workshops. Her heart is in Joplin, in the pockets and purses of her children.