Tuesday, August 30, 2005

In the wake of Katrina

I find my parents. So anti-climatic that I’m almost mad.

Driving onto their street. Fewer trees down that other cities. Fewer power lines on the ground. No signs of a flood. And I’m pulling into their yard. Roofing shingles neatly piled next to the road. Dad has raked all the leaves into a separate pile. They’ve cleared all the limbs from the front, too.

The car port has crumpled and my parents are sitting under the remains of it, sipping beer.

I’m out of the car and running to my mother. She’s alive. Wearing a tank top. And sweating.

“You want some steak, honey?”

“You’re alive!” I hug her. Kiss her cheek. Tastes of salt. And sun screen.

Dad joins the mash. “We were about to grill some ribeyes that were in the freezer. And we have hot water. You can take a shower after we eat.”

“You’re alive!” And I’m hugging them both. We say nothing for a very long time. The three of us together, in the wake of Katrina.
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