rows and rows of books.
We pass the children’s section
where I spent hours
making crafts and singing along
at Sandman Story Time.
We pass a bank of computers, all dark
and an entire section of CDs, DVDs
and recorded books. Worthless
without power.
In the main section, eastern light
from a big bank of windows
illuminates the stacks.
I walk down rows, reading labels
on ends of shelves.
Fiction goes on forever, and then
magazines and newspapers.
Finally, nonfiction, but everything’s
organized by random topics and
numbers on spines don’t make sense.
How am I ever going to find a book
about how to light a fire?
“Okay, George. We’re going to have to go
row by row and check every shelf.
I’ll start over here and you start over there
and let me know if you find something.”
George wags his tail and follows me.
Books about knitting and crocheting.
Gardening and building birdhouses.
Sailing and travel. History and politics.
Finally, a small section on camping.
No books about lighting fires in woodstoves
but one with a chapter about building and
extinguishing campfires.
I tuck it under my arm and head for Teen Fiction.
George trots along beside me.
We browse novels until we’re armed
with enough reading to last several weeks.
Jandy Nelson. John Green. Elana K. Arnold.
Jason Reynolds. Laurie Halse Anderson.
In a state of emergency, there’s no limit
on the books we can borrow.
Outside the service door, we surprise
a feral cat sniffing around the bike trailer.
Her angry hiss startles me and
I jump and drop my books.
George tells her who’s boss and she dashes off.
We load up our treasure and head for home.
Thank You, Laura Ingalls Wilder
I won’t take survival for granted
and I have no intention of being stuck
in a Long Winter with no fuel.
My driving improves
(I still wear my helmet
and seat belt every time).
I fill the van with firewood
from neighbors’ yards.
Unload it into high stacks
on the front porch and around
the side of the house.
I read the camping book cover to cover
and practice building fires in the stove.
I scavenge a case of matches from the store
and seal the boxes in plastic baggies.
They have to stay dry no matter what.
I debate driving east
out of town
looking for others
or the edge of the evacuation.
But how would I get gas?
What if I ended up stranded and lost somewhere?
I remember all the Little House stories
where people took chances in winter
and almost perished in the cold.
I could die in a blizzard far from home.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head.
Stay put.
Stay put.
Stay put.
Five and a Half Months
Occasionally
on the crank radio
I pick up a signal
from a town
in a state far away
but more often than not
all I find is static.
When I do find a station
I listen for any mention
of the imminent threat
or any plans
to end the evacuation
but I never learn anything
beyond what I heard
that very first week.
Often I lie in the dark
at night, wondering
if what I am hearing
is prerecorded.
Nothing ever sounds
current or specific.
When I let the radio fade
the night noises mix
with the static in my head.
My ears strain against
the silence, hungry.
Darwin
Trapped
in the corner
of an alley
between a garage
and a dumpster
a rabbit shrinks
trying to be as small
as possible.
Three dogs
bark and growl.
I ride briskly in the
opposite direction
but I can still
hear the rabbit
when it
screams.
Winter Storm
Freezing rain and wind
take the last of the leaves
still clinging to the trees.
Snowstorms shriek all night
and the house shudders.
I push and drag my mattress
into the front room.
Snuggle with George
under layers of quilts
warm and cozy by
the woodstove.
We keep other doors
in the house closed
to contain the warmth.
I melt snow to wash.
Use bottled water
to drink and cook.
I treat myself
to hot cocoa
in my stepmother’s
favorite blue mug.
To Pass the Time
I play solitaire like my grandma does
with cards spread across the ironing board
lowered down in front of the recliner.
I sketch portraits of George.
I read library books.
I ask Trivial Pursuit questions and try to guess the answers
before I flip the cards over to see if I am correct.
I pull out Dad’s chessboard and play against myself
rotating the board at each turn.
I watch the snow pile up in the yard
and marvel at the magic
winter still works on the world.
Winter Refugees
Wherever my parents are
and whether or not
they know by now
that I was left behind
there is surely
no hope of rescue
while winter is in full force.
Roads will be impassable
and airports abandoned.
“We’re ghosts, George.
Ghosts in a twenty-first
century ghost town.”
Short Days, Long Nights
Following each storm
the sun emerges and
melts the snow enough
to make venturing out possible.
I need to save gas and
I’m afraid of driving on icy roads
so we explore the town on foot.
Check neighboring houses.
Look for food and firewood.
Mostly, though, days are cold and dim.
We sleep a lot.
Conserve batteries and propane.
Even though I think we have plenty
to last until the roads melt and clear
I feel superstitious taking
anything for granted.
I read all the library books I borrowed.
I invent a new card game using
three decks and a pair of dice.
It takes several days to win.
I browse the books on my parents’ bookshelves.
Read about how to tune a piano.
What really caused the breaku
p of the Beatles.
The history of Czechoslovakian theater design.
I study Jennifer’s field guides.
Choose my favorite wildflowers.
Imagine hiking across a meadow with my family.
I fantasize picnics on mountainsides.
Make imaginary deviled eggs.
Sprinkle dill and paprika.
Top each one with a caper.
I can taste them on my tongue and
feel warm granite under me.
But I learn to be cautious with my fantasies.
They can lead to an ache that begins
deep in my body, fills my torso, and crawls
down my limbs until I can no longer
feel my hands or feet.
Sometimes longing
combines with despair
and leaks from the
marrow of my bones
swirls into my blood
permeates my muscles
invades my entire body.
When that happens
it takes all my strength
to crawl into bed
and curl up
wondering
if I can make it
through another
frozen day, still
alone.
Christmas
I drag boxes of ornaments
up from the basement.
Hang shiny balls along curtain rods.
Light the Swedish Christmas candles.
Watch heat from the flames rise.
Little wooden angels spin around in a circle.
I choose more books from the library
and a watercolor kit from the craft section
of the local drugstore.
Wrap them.
Decorate with ribbons and holly.
I find a special rawhide bone for George
and tie a big bow around it.
I make Christmas dinner:
turkey soup
canned cranberry relish
canned squash
boxed cornbread stuffing with dried apricots
canned apple pie filling
After dinner, we open our presents.
Sing Christmas carols.
“Silent Night” makes me cry
so we switch to
“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
We sit by the fire.
George gnaws his bone.
I paint his portrait.
Think about a holy family
alone in a strange land
wondering
what their future holds.
Trust
Each day
I brush snow off the front porch.
Lay out a row of sunflower seeds.
I sit still and quiet at one end of the porch.
Squirrel comes down from his nest
in the cottonwood tree.
Collects each seed
one by one.
As the days pass
I make the row closer and closer to me.
One day
the row leads right to a seed
in the palm of my hand.
Squirrel gathers the seeds
runs back and forth up the tree
to deliver his treasures.
When he reaches my hand
he pauses.
Grabs the seed.
Is up the tree again
before I can blink.
Every morning after that
he comes right to me.
Eats breakfast out of my hand.
Snow Falls, Melts, Falls Again
The woodpile grows smaller
on the side of the house.
I teach myself “Clementine”
and “You Are My Sunshine”
on Dad’s ukulele.
I sing songs to myself.
Tell George stories
about handsome dogs and
brave girls.
Making Art
I spend one whole afternoon
searching through magazines
and catalogs for images of people.
Use my art knife to cut out photographs.
Combine them into different bodies.
Different settings. Different families.
Shellac them onto card stock
and fragments of broken glass.
I hang the installation from the chandelier
over the dining room table.
Air currents move the families
slightly on their strings
but they never tangle
or cross or meet.
One Morning
I unlock the front door.
Let George out.
A spot of color on the ground.
A bright purple crocus peeks
out of the muddy snow.
Over the next days, more crocuses
holler up from their winter beds.
We count and greet each one.
Then yellow daffodils
followed by a rainbow of tulips
up and down the street.
By the time the irises
send up their spiky stalks
spring is official and
a new sense of hope
blooms in my heart.
Peril
(n.) grave risk; exposure to injury, loss, or destruction; danger
Menace
I pedal my bike down the dry-enough road.
Steer around places still coated with icy mud.
Avoid potholes.
We’re heading to Bullseye.
Need new shoes and jeans
to replace the ones I’ve outgrown.
Dog food, propane, lantern mantles.
George lopes alongside.
Nose in air, sniffing spring.
Around the corner
behind the post office
George freezes.
Growls low and deep.
“What is it, buddy?”
I wheel around.
Come back where he has halted.
Fur on the back of his neck
stands straight up.
A car door slams.
Wait—a car door slams?
Incomprehensible.
Dismount. Turn in circles.
Look for an explanation.
Something crashes.
Metal hits metal.
I cry out.
Run toward Main Street and
the certain presence of other humans.
Almost to the corner.
Explosion of breaking glass stops me hard.
A cry of pain.
Is this the imminent threat?
A man’s angry voice.
“Keep whining about how tired you are
and next time I won’t just break your nose.”
I stay frozen with George silent beside me.
The same angry voice barks orders.
“Let’s go! Come on, move it!
Back that truck up here and get it loaded.
We gotta be over the border by dark.”
Gears grind.
The beep-beep-beep of a truck in reverse
echoes off buildings.
Other men’s voices rumble.
Shout to each other.
Metal hits metal again.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!
Pick up the pace, you morons.”
Angry Voice is closer.
I move into shadows.
George follows.
We slip down the alley.
I grab a bit of muddy clothesline.
Tie George to the fence.
He whines but I tell him to shush.
He sits down.
Cocks his head.
I inch around the side of the building.
Men shout.
Call to one another.
I peer over a windowsill
into the appliance store.
See across the showroom and out
through the display windows
to the street bey
ond.
Angry Voice has a shaved head.
Mirrored sunglasses.
Combat boots.
His scalp is tattooed
with a skull tangled in thorns.
Other men push heavy appliances
through broken display windows
to a moving truck on the sidewalk.
Their heads are also shaved.
Ink stains their arms.
They aren’t careful.
They shove and stack appliances.
Cram as much as possible
into the truck.
Throw smaller items
into the bed of a pickup
parked in the street.
Blood gushes from one man’s nose
but he keeps working.
More glass breaks.
Two men come out of the Antique Attic
with a cash register.
Add it to the rest.
Angry Voice shouts from the sidewalk.
Points up the block.
“You two—head over to the pawnshop.
Grab anything we can fence
or sell for scrap.
But no serial numbers!”
The men run.
Chains on their boots rattle.
I crouch down beneath the window.
Hide behind an air-conditioning unit.
I am sure they can hear my heart
sledgehammering my ribs.
I stay still.
On the One Hand
These men are not government or military.
Not a rescue squad.
They remind me of rioters
I saw on the Internet.
What did he mean by fence?
And why no serial numbers?
When they finish looting the street
will they start on neighborhoods?
On the Other Hand
They also remind me of the pastors
at the megachurch. The ones with
Carhartt work clothes and hipster tattoos.
Shaved heads don’t necessarily equal danger.
These are the first people I’ve seen in months.
They have the power to get me out of here.
They might have cell phones I can use.
Give me a ride to an evacuation center.
Then again, it seems like they’re breaking the law.
If they know I’ve seen them stealing
they might not help me at all.
If they turn out to be dangerous,
I have no protection against them.
If they’re creeps as well as thieves
I could be in much deeper trouble
than I can ever escape.
Can’t Think Straight
Think.
Think.
Think.
Alone Page 6
