Hurricane Sandy 2012
Late last
October the winds came up, way up; blew in at one hundred and ten mph.
A hard storm
curled its way along the coast, bellowed its tantrum into your island,
ripping
trees, pitching them into houses, crushing cars. The tide surged in
and in,
until the sea sucked the bones of the land and spit out death. Then, the waves
tried to
bury what they’d done with sand and debris and seaweed, tried to cover the
windows.
And after, days
into weeks with your wife and children huddled near the fireplace,
eating fridge
leftovers, then mining the canned goods, waiting for the grid to crank up
with civilisation
again. When cold had crept into every last corner,
the baby got sick.
It didn’t
feel like camping anymore with the candles burned and clothes covered with
vomit
and water
getting scarce, yet the damage went on. “Never seen anything like it,” you said.
Seven months
and your chainsaw continues to chew the deadfall into fire wood, now drying
in tidy rows
in your yard. Chunked lengths of black oak
lie where the crane dropped them
to your
flagstones; they await the teeth of the portable mill. For you are determined
not to waste
these trees fallen after two hundred years of touching the sky; you choose
to honor and
remember them. You want to saw them, plane
them, build furniture;
you want to build
tables with tales of the wind to tell.
The words and photo are copyright © Carol Steel. This story of Hurricane Sandy is a
compilation of stories and is not meant to depict any one family.
