Storms

Storms

before

Hannah counting seconds. I realize it isn't lightning; the power just went. And then thunder coming under us, shaking, small rattlings, spices in cupboards, a book off the shelf. The file cabinet goes sailing on the yellow lino and Hannah twirls herself up in my skirt. Haven't felt anything like this in Clementine since they built it. I was around, little. They were halfway through I guess-- and wooden skeletons don't hold up very well. Had to start over. Everything still mostly wood, bank, houses, grocery. The cemetery, white painted railings, dead grass, fungus coming up like flowers. The church, and the light through the slats. That year I took up whittling. I liked the changing of it. Still shaking. This is bigger, but we're not in a skeleton this time. Nona, Nona, whispers Hannah. Nona look at the window. Out the window, I remind her, and then look. Trees pass by like rain, the world spinning around us. Tremendous noise from the basement. I see a flash of the church and then a thick stand of firs coming to rest, mist. I shut my eyes and push my palms in.

after

Nona's hands are over her eyes. I'm trying to pry them off, but she's stubborn. There's trees outside now, the forest from the edge of town. I give up with Nona and run to the other window. The cemetery's where the orchard used to be only the headstones are sinking in, slumping and tired. I think that's an edge of a coffin maybe. And over there-- in the long hair of the grass-- where there are no markings, those are bones. And a way off, the church stands shining, unharmed. It's Sunday, Nona says, and pushes me to go get my dress on.            

            We'll go sing hymns and sit in the back pine.

            And after?

            To the orchard. Pay our respects.