1. Her Name Was Katrina
When can we go home? “In a little while.” she said. Walking mile after mile. To
and fro, here and there, away from the clouds and into the dome. Never to sleep,
never to eat, never to rest their weary feet. A little girl here, a little boy there.
Families, frightened and lost. To share their pain, what is the cost? Day after day,
night after night. Little girl here, little boy there. Mothers without fathers, fathers
in the air. Home no longer there.
When will the rain go away? “In a little while.” she said. Pacing round the room,
day after day. Move the furniture. Shutter the windows. Try a little harder to
force a smile. No lights, no phones, no gas to cook unfrozen meat. Little boy
here, little girl there. Beyond the 9th Ward and into the French Quarter, drowning
the Jazz Fest. Hour after hour, minute after minute. A little boy here, a little girl
there. Mothers and fathers searching - for the way out. Scream and shout, without
a doubt.
When will somebody help us? “In a little while.” she said. Watching wind bent
trees as waves fill up the windows. Debris and waves seal the street. Images float
across the screen. People, voices, near and far. Little boy here, little girl there.
Fear wakes up, courage takes a nap. Clocks run out. The race takes a face.
Mothers and fathers talk. In secret. A little boy here, a little girl there. Speeding
against the tide, waiting for a low. Life escapes without a care.
When are we leaving? “In a little while.” she said. Running from room to room,
gathering photos, mementos, of moments past. Lights flicker, children cry. Never
a reason to ask why. A little girl here, a little boy there. Storms are storms, rain
is rain. Locked in the house upon a chain. Too late to change direction, too late
to run. Staying hidden behind the sun. Little girl here, little boy there. Feeling
the pinch of the crow.
When will it be over? “In a little while.” she said. Wanting stability, wanting
peace, wanting more. The bowl of fruit sits and waits. The fish tank gurgles and
hums. A little girl here, a little boy there. Who is there to listen, what is there to
gain? Leaving a mark, leaving a stain. Where have they been, where can they
go. Little girl here, little boy there. Each to his own, it’s only fair. Each breath
in, out, equals one whispered prayer.