Soy un tornado
Missouri's natural disaster: A rush of winds so powerful that it could destroy anything in seconds. Once a tornado touches down, nothing can stop it, and everything that it comes into contact with changes. It can be rebuilt, but can never be the exact same as it was before the storm.
I remember the storms every summer.
They used to scare me, because our house was built without a basement. That meant we had to lock ourselves up in the bathroom (no windows), my brother and I in the tub and mom sitting beside us, praying that the clouds would move the other way. I imagined our house being torn from its roots, like something from the Wizard of Oz, except I doubted we would be walking down the yellow brick road together, meeting friendly tin men and scarecrows.
Eventually, I got used to the storms
It would start out a brisk cool day and then it would become humid. So humid, and when it got to be that way, I'd look up at the sky. It was like it changed in an instant, from grey to blue green. But the blue green color that took over the sky wasn't pretty like it should have been. It was dark, and you could feel change in the air. It was a warning, before the radio began to tell us about tornado watches and the rain that would eventually come. It came before the sirens; a feeling that let us know to be prepared for the night to come.
Here in Chile we make sopaipillas when it rains.
It's a day to snuggle up by the stove, and watch movies together. But when the tornado approached, the rain filled the ditches and the water pounded on the doors. We stood together in the kitchen, watching the trees try to resist the water and the wind. Then came the hail and it came down much harder than the rain. For a few minutes, ice shattered on the sidewalks and we raced to see who would find the biggest piece. It was spectacular, it was beautiful. And then the sirens began.
A watch and a warning:
I always mixed up the difference between a tornado watch and a warning. A watch means that tornadoes touching down are possible, a warning means they already have. I never did see a tornado in all my years living in Missouri. They hit places close to our home. I remember the big one, my mom came in late at night to tell me that people were dying and the neighboring city was torn to pieces. But our little house stayed standing.
The sky clears:
Once the storm passes, the city reviews the damages. Trees brought down, branches in the yards, cars dented by the ice. I feel like a tornado. Not because I am a powerful wind storm, but because once I leave, the damages are reviewed, and although people are fascinated by the disaster, by the spectacle, life goes on. And the tornado goes back up where it came from, leaving the scene. The thing is, I don't know where my home is. If it's here, if it's there. All I know is that I have shaken things up, taken them and changed them, and I don't always know if that is a good thing. I know it can be, but I know that sometimes it just isn't. And all I can do is wonder if they feel the warning, hear the watch, and if they see the sky clear.
I remember the storms every summer.
They used to scare me, because our house was built without a basement. That meant we had to lock ourselves up in the bathroom (no windows), my brother and I in the tub and mom sitting beside us, praying that the clouds would move the other way. I imagined our house being torn from its roots, like something from the Wizard of Oz, except I doubted we would be walking down the yellow brick road together, meeting friendly tin men and scarecrows.
Eventually, I got used to the storms
It would start out a brisk cool day and then it would become humid. So humid, and when it got to be that way, I'd look up at the sky. It was like it changed in an instant, from grey to blue green. But the blue green color that took over the sky wasn't pretty like it should have been. It was dark, and you could feel change in the air. It was a warning, before the radio began to tell us about tornado watches and the rain that would eventually come. It came before the sirens; a feeling that let us know to be prepared for the night to come.
Here in Chile we make sopaipillas when it rains.
It's a day to snuggle up by the stove, and watch movies together. But when the tornado approached, the rain filled the ditches and the water pounded on the doors. We stood together in the kitchen, watching the trees try to resist the water and the wind. Then came the hail and it came down much harder than the rain. For a few minutes, ice shattered on the sidewalks and we raced to see who would find the biggest piece. It was spectacular, it was beautiful. And then the sirens began.
A watch and a warning:
I always mixed up the difference between a tornado watch and a warning. A watch means that tornadoes touching down are possible, a warning means they already have. I never did see a tornado in all my years living in Missouri. They hit places close to our home. I remember the big one, my mom came in late at night to tell me that people were dying and the neighboring city was torn to pieces. But our little house stayed standing.
The sky clears:
Once the storm passes, the city reviews the damages. Trees brought down, branches in the yards, cars dented by the ice. I feel like a tornado. Not because I am a powerful wind storm, but because once I leave, the damages are reviewed, and although people are fascinated by the disaster, by the spectacle, life goes on. And the tornado goes back up where it came from, leaving the scene. The thing is, I don't know where my home is. If it's here, if it's there. All I know is that I have shaken things up, taken them and changed them, and I don't always know if that is a good thing. I know it can be, but I know that sometimes it just isn't. And all I can do is wonder if they feel the warning, hear the watch, and if they see the sky clear.
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