We are two hundred miles inland but directly in the path and already the sky is heavy and green and the rain tastes of salt. Our driveway is underwater. The goats are restless, bleating. The chickens huddle. Earlier, our parents lost patience with each other and my father took the truck. The lights are flickering, the power wavering. Each passed hour becomes a link in the chain of an uncertain narrative. In other words: the ending has not been written. Will not be written today, unless it is. The wind brings the smell of the sea and scraps of trash that tap and jazz across the yard. The lightning draws nearer, the thunder grows louder, like sheets of corrugated tin rattling in the back of a pickup bouncing along a long dirt road. We were born for weather like this – a storm we might survive but will not escape.
Self Portrait as a Game of Clue
My grandmother in the dining room with the deck of cards. My grandfather in the garage with the red rubber ball on a fishing line that lets you know when to stop driving. My father at the front door in the purple paisley bathrobe. My father at the front door with the beard. My mother coming down the stairs with the white shoes. My mother coming down the stairs with the flower in her hair. Everyone in the foyer with the awkward silence. I am the invisible body. I roll the dice. I move. I suspect, I accuse, I open the envelope to see how much I’ve gotten right.