Emily Stephan is a freelance writer and educator who reads too many books and watches too many movies. Her fiction and poetry have been published by Z Publishing House, Cheap Pop, and the Manchac Review. She is also a regular contributor to the Ultimate Action Movie Club website.
September 2, 2005
I remember trees, glass, streetlights littering the roads,
the grass turned to mud, “looters will be shot” cardboard signs
tacked to the front of Mr. Palmer’s house, the roof caved in,
an evergreen prostrate across the upstairs bedroom
I remember the queasy silence in the car,
the unbearable stretch from Baton Rouge to back home,
mama fiddling with her rosary, daddy’s knuckles white on the wheel,
the awful question hanging in the air, left unspoken
I remember us screeching to a halt in front of the house—
our great pine tree toppled across the lawn,
just skimming the siding, crushing the azalea beds,
a few brown shingles scattered atop the monstrous foliage
I remember the first time I ever saw mama cry, hands hiding her face,
and daddy bowing his head, relieved exhalation deflating his body,
myself shocked at the spectacle of their catharsis,
the final confirmation that grown-ups could be afraid