at Great-Grandma’s house.
The bloated top of an ancient can
of potted meat.
Botulism.
I check every can of food for
bulging or bad smells.
How long do canned goods stay edible?
Do pasta and rice go bad?
Boiling food only adds to my water concerns.
We’ve finished all the drinking water
from the supermarket.
We’re raiding bottled water from
local gas stations around town.
Every time I ride anywhere on my bike
I make a point of coming home with
at least one new case of water.
The supermarket still has
a few jugs of distilled water
but I don’t know if it’s safe to drink
and I keep forgetting
to look it up at the library.
If things get really bleak
I suppose we’ll just have to risk it.
Each day I grow more concerned about
what will happen if
our food and water supplies run out.
I read expiration dates.
Organize our food stores to ration cans
with the longest shelf lives.
I continue scavenging
through homes and businesses
but I worry about the day
those supplies will be gone too.
Every once in a while I find
a vegetable garden still producing
a few carrots or radishes
from earlier seasons.
I cook a pumpkin I find growing
in an old compost pile
but the recipe in Mom’s cookbook
calls for baking the pumpkin
before mashing it and all I can do
is chop it up and boil it.
The whole endeavor turns out to be
much more work than I anticipate and
the results don’t taste very good.
I search for fresh fruit from
the trees around town
but last autumn
the fruit was either too sour
or too wormy.
It’s hard not to worry.
Storm
We are swimming at the lake
when a storm rolls in.
I am in the water.
George runs back and forth
along the length of the dock
barking at me.
We both hear thunder.
Clouds amass above the foothills.
Jagged lightning divides the sky.
I remember soccer coaches calling
everyone off the field during practice.
The whole team gathered under
the picnic shelter to wait for thirty minutes
before heading back out.
The hairs on the back of George’s neck
stand up as more thunder rumbles over us.
I swim to the dock.
Pull myself out of the water.
Grab backpack, towel, shoes.
Run for home.
Hot drops of rain pelt the street.
I fall into the rocking chair on the porch.
Towel my hair.
George whines and looks at the door
asking to be let inside.
I rub him between the ears.
“Oh, Georgie, so brave in the face of looters
and yet so scared of a little thunder.”
We retreat indoors.
Conflagration
It rains throughout
the afternoon.
Occasional claps
of thunder and lightning.
The brittle, dry land
sighs with relief
at the welcome showers.
Lightning continues
through the night
patterns of light
on the walls of the basement
where we lie
listening to the storm.
I am shocked awake
by a sudden explosion of thunder
blinding light.
George barks and whines.
I reach for him.
The smell of ozone wafts
through the air.
“It’s okay, Georgie. I think lightning
must have struck pretty close, that’s all.
That’s an awful smell.”
I head upstairs
out into the front yard.
The rain has stopped but
the wind is blowing.
No moon.
I can’t see until lightning and
thunder strike again
painting everything in a flash
of brilliant clarity and
deafening noise.
Again, the ozone smell fills the air.
An orange light glows in the sky
behind my mother’s roof.
I stare.
Try to reconcile moving light
in the middle
of so much darkness.
Then the ozone smell is replaced
with smoke.
“George! It’s a fire!”
It Happens So Fast
Back into the house.
Dining room.
Kitchen.
Out into the backyard.
Beyond the fence in the open space
a huge cottonwood tree is ablaze.
A dark scar mars the side
where lightning struck.
Flames lick the branches.
Encircle the trunk.
The wind picks up.
A giant limb crashes onto
the split-rail fence and
the fence catches fire.
Sparks and embers rise
into the sky.
The fire travels.
Engulfs my brothers’ fort
in the corner maple tree.
Burning two-by-fours fall to the ground.
Now the maple is ablaze too.
The fire consumes the fence.
Eats its way around
the perimeter of the yard
toward the house.
It happens so fast I don’t think
about the possibility
that I might be in danger.
The wind blows in
from every direction.
This fire is famished.
It swallows the length of the fence
then leaps to the Nortons’ house.
Within minutes it’s licking
their second-story windows.
Sparks blow from the Nortons’ house
to our roof.
“George! Come!”
What to Save?
We run back into the house.
Stand there.
I don’t know what to save.
family photos?
artwork on the walls?
What meaning does any of it have if
no one ever comes back again?
My water supply and food are in the garage
but the mudroom door is hot to the touch
and I choke on smoke billowing up
from the crack underneath.
The garage is already on fire.
I run back into the living room.
Find my shoes.
My backpack’s on the floor
where I dropped it.
I grab it
slam open the front door
and drag George out of the house.
Ashes, Ashes
for hours we’re hypnotized
watching our home
and houses up and down the block
devoured, consumed, destroyed
the fire is ravenous
but flames never reach
over here across the street
where we sit paralyzed
in the heat
the wind dies down
the rain resumes
douses everything
dro
wns the last of the flames
thick, white smoke rises
from burnt-out foundations
skeletons of cars sit
black and unrecognizable
where garages stood
my skin is plastered with wet ash
the taste of smoke coats
my mouth and nose
the sun rises
alien and green
on the smoky horizon
I’m filled with despair
for all I’ve lost
my brothers’ fort
the yard where Mom married Paul
the first home baby Trevor ever knew
obliterated
and my supplies of food and fuel
my mom’s van
the bicycle with the trailer
all destroyed
now I am truly stuck here
I can surely find
another bike
but
what are the chances
I’ll find another car
that will still start after
two years and
two winters
any flirtations I had with
making my own way
back to civilization
burned to the ground
along with my neighborhood
stand up
limbs unfold stiffly
pull my backpack over my shoulders
tug at George’s collar
he lies still on the porch
follows my movements
another tug
come on, old friend
there’s nothing here for us now
let’s go
he rises slowly
the trauma of the fire has aged us both
overnight
together we walk into the smoky sunrise
toward the lake trail to Dad’s house
Aftermath
The smell of smoke lasts for days.
Mom’s street is not the only one destroyed.
Lightning caused fires all around Millerville.
Dozens of houses burned.
I have to throw away my clothes.
Even my backpack reeks.
As I empty everything out
my hand closes around something
wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the pack.
A flattened Twinkie.
A fossil from my duplicitous life Before Evacuation.
I stretch out on a blanket in the shade
close my eyes, and eat the spongy cake.
It tastes as if nothing has changed.
Treasure
After Mom’s house
is reduced to cinders
I search everywhere
for signs of her.
I scour Dad’s house
from top to bottom
hunting for anything
she might have touched.
I find a birthday card
she wrote to Jennifer.
Discover a stash
of my elementary school
tests and reading logs.
Use my finger to
trace Mom’s signature
over and over again.
The greatest treasure
is a postcard she
sent me from
Washington, DC,
when I was little.
She printed in
block letters so
I could sound out
the words by myself.
I tuck the card in my
pocket next to
Elliott’s book report.
I carry it with me
wherever I go.
Postcard
THE BLOOMING CHERRY BLOSSOMS MAKE MY HEART HAPPY, JUST LIKE YOU DO. SOMEDAY I’LL BRING YOU TO WASHINGTON SO YOU CAN SEE THEM FOR YOURSELF.
I LOVE YOU, MY MADDIE GIRL!
XOXO, MAMA
Tantrum
Night is the hardest.
I stay busy during the day
gathering food and supplies.
Night, though, my mind is
more busy with fears than tasks.
I try praying a few times
but I feel self-conscious
and awkward.
I find a spiral notebook and
a pen and write a letter
to God instead.
I remember Mom’s strict rules for
How to Be a Good Correspondent.
Always start with gratitude.
Dear God,
Just in case you had anything to do with
it (and if you do actually exist), thanks for
helping save George and me from the fire,
and for helping us find food and water
and all the stuff we need every day.
We appreciate all the help we can get.
Adjust the solar garden light.
Stare at the wall.
Why the hell haven’t you rescued me yet?????
Cross it out.
Try again.
Why the hell haven’t you rescued me yet?????
I was wondering if you might be able to give
me some help down here? I mean, if there is
any way you could manage a little miracle and
GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE I WOULD
APPRECIATE IT!!!!!!
I mean, seriously, God, am I being tested or
something?? What more do you want from me???
I’m doing my part. I’m keeping us alive. When
are you going to show up and start contributing
a little, huh? Would it really be that hard, in
light of everything else you’ve supposedly
accomplished?
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU????
Heat roils in my chest.
I hurl the pen and the notebook
across the room
knock books and knickknacks
off the dresser and
onto the floor.
I storm into the kitchen
open the cupboard
and pick up a stack of
dinner plates.
Slam out the back door
into the dark yard
and throw each plate
as hard as I can
against the cinder-block wall
at the back of the property.
The sound of shattering ceramic
echoes off the neighboring houses.
When all the plates are broken
I run back inside and gather up
as many drinking glasses
as I can carry.
When they are smashed to pieces
I go back once more and
drag out all the empty bottles.
When everything has been
reduced to sharp shards scattered
across the dead grass
I collapse on the back stoop.
The dark braces for more.
Holds its breath.
The ground glitters
with broken glass.
A cricket breaks the silence. An owl hoots.
Another echoes a response.
A bullfrog sings nearby.
A black nose pushes under my elbow.
“Hey there, big guy. I’m sorry if I scared you.
You’re going to have to go out to pee in
the front yard from now on.
Too much broken glass out here.”
I’m no longer fuming
just exhausted.
I have no complaint with God.
If God exists
it’s entirely possible that
I have him or her to thank
for helping us survive
as long as we have.
I can throw all the tantrums I want
and it doesn’t change a thing
or bring my parents back.
I am the most ancient teenager
on the planet.
Rebuilding
Everything seems flammable
and we are j
umpy and anxious.
George leaves the room whenever
I strike a match.
I raid the kitchen at the megachurch.
Load a neighbor’s red wagon
with enough water
to last several weeks
at Dad’s house.
Try to rebuild our food stores
but without Mom’s van
stocking up for winter
will take much longer.
I pull the wagon
breaking into houses
businesses
up and down the streets
systematically searching
for food
water
firewood
Some houses still smell awful
from the carcasses of
dead pets or rotted food.
Others seem almost normal
as if someone were just there
or stepped out for a moment.
As the days get hotter
I scavenge enough
to feel cautiously optimistic
about our prospects for
surviving another winter.
Can Opener
George loves the can opener
and the bounty it liberates
every night for his dinner.
I do not share his enthusiasm.
After so many months
of eating nothing
but canned goods
fresh food is a memory
I’ve forgotten.
My tongue has amnesia.
My teeth wouldn’t know
what to do with
anything firmer than
a chickpea.
Food is fuel.
Nothing more.
no pleasure
no flavor
Everything cooked.
Everything soft.
Reduced to
salty or sweet.
Indiscernible from one
can to the next.
Only minor variations in
color or texture.
chunky or soupy
mushy or meaty
One night I dream I am eating
a grilled cheese sandwich
with fresh tomato and three kinds
of cheese on sourdough bread.
In the morning, my pillowcase
is wet with drool.
Garden
An idea plants itself in my brain.
Grandpa always had a summer plot
in the community garden.
I ride to their apartment and rifle
through drawers in the kitchen and pantry
until I find a bundle of faded seed packets
held together with a stiff old rubber band.
Do seeds expire?
I spread them on the kitchen table.
Zucchini
Radishes
Marigolds
Carrots
Spinach
Tomatoes
Cauliflower
Zinnias
Read the backs of the envelopes
Alone Page 11
