Coming Home

I knew we had to drive through Moore to get home. I'd seen the news. I thought I knew what to expect. The city had been flattened. The city had been destroyed.

I had no idea what that actually meant.

The news makes everything seem so distant, you know? Even when it's a city you know, even when it's a landscape you grew up on, the news makes it feel remote somehow. Isolated, even. The piles of rubble you see newscasters sift through never seem like something you could climb on. Rubble never feels like something you could touch.

Traffic slowed as we entered the city. At first I thought the stretch of road we needed might be impassable, but it wasn't. The roads had been cleared, but the drivers -- the drivers looked at the disaster and were brought to a halt. I held my hand over my mouth as we inched along. I'd thought I was prepared, but I wasn't. I blinked back tears. My eyes felt hot. I think I said, it's all just gone, but even that was wrong. Everything was there. It was all just -- twisted. Trees were broken. I saw jagged trunks sticking straight up out of piles of metal. They were leafless, wrong. Some houses were sunken in the middle; others were leveled. Leveled, but not level, not crisp and straight as a fresh-mown lawn. Buildings disappeared into rubble. Rubble was something you could walk across -- twisted metal and car parts smashed, wide as a field and thick as grass

Then we turned away from the tornado's path. When we got to my house the door was open. The light was on. I ran onto the porch and hugged my mom.

**Not everyone was as lucky as my family though, who live 20 miles away from the damaged area. For many, there's real need in OK right now. I know some of you have asked how you can help. If you're one of them, please consider donating money to the Red Cross.** 

...something new...

I wrote a poem. You can read it at Anchor and Plume.

Broken

Growing up, I went to E.M. Trout Elementary School in Ponca City, Oklahoma. Our mascot was the tornado. We even had a sweatshirt about it, a red swirl streaking across white fabric. They called us The Trout Tornadoes and we twirled around the gym floor in keeping with our name.

Basements aren't common in Oklahoma. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think it has something to do with the fact that our red soil is as damp as clay. When the sirens go off, you look at the sky. Sometimes the clouds crest like waves above the fields; sometimes they're charcoal gray; sometimes they're bright and green and glowing. Sometimes the air starts churning. You gauge the threat. You listen to the weather warnings. If it's dangerous enough, you pack a bag and head to a church or a school or a library -- a hospital, even. You drive into the storm, windshield wipers on, wind howling. You go where there's a community shelter.

As an adult, I know these shelters are unpleasant, overcrowded and hot. You sit shoulder to shoulder with the throng. You make a ring around the TV. You usually can't see, so you strain your ears to listen. The clock ticks. The second hand marks the rise in tension.

As a child though, our shelter was in the elementary school. I remember taking out my books one stormy night and packing toys and snacks in my backpack, a hurried stash of emergency supplies. I even got to take my pillow. We parked in the parking lot and stepped into the evening. The wind was up; the stars were black. The air was moist and cool. We saw friends getting out of their car two aisles over. We saw neighbors at the door. We waved and smiled. The adults called out their greetings.

Inside, adults had already gathered around the TV. I joined a group of children playing. We looked at the clock and marveled at the time -- and on a school night! More time passed. We surreptitiously rubbed our eyes. We didn't notice the rise and fall of tension. School was safe and our parents could keep the world in line. When the storm passed we hugged our goodbyes and rode home to our separate houses. 

Oklahoma is my home. Moore is only twenty miles away from my parents' house in the city. I grew up under those churning skies. I breathed them in and they gave me strength. They promised me a future that stretched as wide as the horizon, but it's been terrible watching this disaster unfold from such a distance. As the first swell of crisis fades, I'm left with questions. I'm left with anger. (Did you know there aren't any community shelters in Moore? Not one.) I'm left with compassion. We're driving home as soon as school lets out for summer on Friday morning.

I've never been so eager to get there.

On Self-Acceptance

Turn left at the end of my driveway and walk down to the stop sign. Ignore the path that takes you to The Sandy Spot (as my girls call it). Turn left again. Walk all the way to the end of the street. Now go a little farther, just a couple of feet.

You're in a field we like to visit.

It's half a field really, separated from the main field by a row of trees and a little creek. Here, the grass is flower laden; blackberries darken; strawberries turn from green to pink. Here, thorns catch at skirts and tangle themselves in windblown tresses. Brambles sprawl across the field's unmown edges. Insects buzz. Fat toads hop camouflaged among the leaves.  

The field is as lush and alive as The Sandy Spot is barren, but we arrive at them both with quickness in our feet. They're havens for exploring.

And there's room in the world for each.

Is This a Dream?

Twenty minutes before her guests arrived Penelope was standing in the back garden helping me wash mud spots off the windows. The clouds were low in the sky and a hard sun ducked between them. The air was heavy. Our exhalations formed the only breeze. 

"Mommy," Penelope said softly.  A bead of sweat dampened her hairline; the space between her eyebrows suddenly creased. I smiled at her reflection in the window then wiped at the glass before it could streak.

"Mommy," she repeated, "is this a dream?"

"Is what a dream?" I asked.

"This," she widened her arms until they encompassed the whole backyard, the picnic table and the fresh-mown grass. "This party, is it real or is it a dream?"

"Oh, sweetie," I smiled, touched at her happiness and touched that she would seek me out, trust my word, even in a dream. "This is real, of course! This is the moment just before your birthday party. This isn't a dream. Why? Is that what it feels like?"

"It feels like the very best dream."

Weeks Before Five

Dear Penelope,

I thought today was going to be easy. Well, no, not easy exactly, a roomful of preschoolers is never easy, but I didn't expect it to be emotionally complicated either. I didn't expect to be wistful. You're not five years old yet after all. You won't be five until June; it's too early for a birthday party. But for a little girl who was born in Italy, turned one in England, two in Spain, three in the United States, and four in Japan, you were remarkably specific about what you wanted this year. You wanted a party. Not a trip. A party. (You turned down Disney World for this, you know, but you probably won't remember.) You wanted friends and presents and candles on the cake and a house full of decorations -- and you refused to accept that not many kids would come to a summertime birthday party.

We compromised.

You agreed to have your party the weekend before school let out, even though it was still a few weeks away from your birthday, and I agreed to host the summeriest party you could imagine. A Summer Bug Birthday Picnic, as it turned out. I thought it would be easy.

The thing is, when you set out to celebrate someone the act of it all -- coordinating the colors, baking the cake, arranging the decorations -- becomes a kind of moving meditation. I couldn't help but reflect on you. Every detail, every flourish, was designed to celebrate the girl you're becoming while honoring the baby you're leaving behind. I guess that's the point of a birthday party.

You're kind of a scamp, you know that? You're an imp, an elf, a spark of light. You make the whole world spring to life. Then you turn around and you're shy with strangers. You can be shy with adults who aren't strangers, too, if they aren't family either. You don't let everyone see the full scope of you. Sometimes you flash to anger. I see how hard you work to channel that feeling. I see you when you don't want to lash out, but when you don't know what else to do. At your angriest, I see the way you use rage to cover tender places. I want you to know that.

I see it all. I love it all. I notice you.

I love the mischief you make and the playfulness you can't contain. I love the way you cling to me when you need me and the way you bristle at my touch when you want to be alone. I love the way you retreat sometimes and the way you don't perform on cue. I love the anger you use to protect yourself. And I love the fragile spots you're guarding; I see those, too. I love how mad you are that you're still not five yet and I love that you didn't want to go to Disney World because you knew, you knew, you wanted to have this party. I love your determination.

I love everything about you, honey. I love who you are. I love who you were. I love who you're becoming.

I just love you.

Love, Mama

Kindred Magazine

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