Aftermath There is a difference between cutting and riii a tornado shows you that difference. There are no calculations for the chaos one roof can tear into a million pieces. people’s lives 35,000 feet up. For a moment the world turns upside down then comes crashing back to earth, just roads and rubble. Buried in their own homes tearing apart stories a man thrown, hung in a tree, tossed in their car landing far away, bruised, burned, impaled, gone. We became sightseers in our own town, in this weather war zone. What was once stable, unmoved, untouched you would have thought we lived in tents. The collision of cold and warm, like cars crashing head on heavy becomes just a theory. The trees became dominoes not just to fall, but to rip, to contort left haphazard like bodies tossed, mass grave. News came like a patchwork quilt, in pieces on screens too small. Bathtubs, basements, under the stairs all talk was tornado. It is hard, maybe impossible, to stand still trying to wake up, wake up to the loss. The court house, the churches, the post office the Ice House, the places you forgot to really see, you can get lost in your own town. Pilefield. Trashfield. Crumblefield. Memoryfield. They stacked Mayfield on the curb and drove it off in big black debris trucks. Roofing signs popped up like politics: Primal, CowboyUp, Tennessee, Woodall, Swift Super, Thomas, Tucker, Everything Exterior. A pilgrimage of help: linemen, tarps, food, volunteers, canned goods, clothes. People came from Indiana, Chicago, Wisconsin Samaritan’s Purse, Barbeque Relief. Water bottle mountains, diapers, toiletries, gift cards what goes where, how many pieces, “Do Not Doze”. Remember this generosity, the small things: hot drink, flushing toilet, basic shelter someone to check on you. How do we carry that hundreds, thousands of miles with the same strength that blew it all apart. Remember too, some dramas even a tornado can’t blow away. A picture, poem, letter the strange soft touch of a monster sometimes the lightest thing lands a hundred miles from home. Come spring will the trees with any shred of life torn in December even question growing? pping Remember the world can be tossed in a blender and turned on,
