East Village, November 2012
This week I thought about the woman whose arms are now empty for babies
Swept away by the storm.
I learned to listen to the stories of others.
I watched my fellow educators make sense of our lives, while reaching our students like a life raft.
I heard about friends grandbabies pets lost dreams and a widow who clutched her husband's slippers because that's all she has left.
I watch neighbors battle the storm recovering slowly in baby steps, while comforting their children in the cold quiet darkness under dusty quilts from the attic.
Texts, calls, posts, tweets, face to face.
How are you?
Thank God we are fine.
Grateful and guilty.
My parents under my roof, rolling meatballs and making coffee.
The inlaws, with us every step start to finish, reminding us to fill up our gas cans, remembering Katrina, Ivan, and all the others before.
Armed with canned food, extra boxes, warm coats, we battle to help, but feel helpless to give true solace for what was lost.
Over the phone, a voice bravely facing pain-- can you put me on your list to rebuild?
Dumpsters filled with a lifetime
Long lines of cars and polling booths snake through Election Tuesday
Awaiting the next storm; turn off the radio.
A collective gasp for air.air.air: a reminder that it could be our last.