Heather started driving at ten - late mornings, like the maintenance crews.
It gave her time to unwind - wake up, and take in the news.
A cup of juice on the counter - a bagel discarded,
she picks up her phone - makes sure it’s charged,
and then puts on her shoes.
“Home” in a heart-shaped mat stashes a key, which means she’s never been locked out,
so she locks up - then walks to her car that she parked a couple of spots down.
On the dashboard are a lot of odds with no ends,
sheets of loose leaf paper with notes that don’t make sense,
splotchily painted lego blocks,
and bobbleheads that wobble when she watches them.
While her residence is homely - her car is more surrealist.
Her home is for her “friends”, for whom her trauma, she conceals it.
“Friends” is used loosely… “how’s your momma?” doesn’t dignify a reply.
Just a Hobby Lobby woman surviving these incredibly violent times.
She sits inside and pulls the door close ‘til it’s closed with a click,
then she takes up the notated papers she composed with a BIC,
checks in the back seat to ensure the storm coats exist,
then heads to a shelter to give warmth to the homeless and sick.
…
the wind whips blustery as Heather arrives at the Refuge - a shelter,
while clouds cluster together providing the promise of a deluge of weather.
…
A curious couple of folk look up from the floor to see who’s arrived,
as a bundle of coats walks in through the door and an arm extends through the side.
While the homeless helped Heather unload coats, no one noticed the sky…
the door slams closed from behind.
Heather turns nervous, arms half unloaded, as an outside siren peals and peaks,
seeking a brass badge for the reason, though she hates the police.
Mostly cuz her mom kept recalling the pig that abused them…
and she’s been scolded enough that she knows when to morally speak.
Out of turn, she retreats her concern with relief.
Heather listens to loonies give a wickedly vitriol speech,
as she lays the last coats out, she double-checks their material’s clean,
shoos away teens trying to sneak stickers of “Israel’s free”,
then packs bags to leave as they’re preaching for thieves to “collect” what they fiscally need.
She’s mostly to the door, when once again the sirens sound.
She glances out and notices, above them, all the murus clouds,
a moment’s hesitation, as the funnel spins and swirls down,
and only moments later it is touching ground.
Heather ponders ducking out…
…
across town: in a state of debris, the wind whips through glass that has shattered,
and the furious funnel tunnel visions a group of youth ‘til they scatter.
…
It only takes a moment to reach them and rips through the roof.
Heather covers her head reflexively, her moment of truth…
Guess she wasn’t as tough as she thought. The wind whips away,
and one of the teens wanders over to check if she’s doing okay.
She’s sobbing and angry that she cowered to fear.