Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Evacuation Order No.18
RIt was late December and outside it was dusk. Every time the clouds began rolling in, she would set out the buckets and wait for the rain. Without looking up from the map, she stuck her hand out to catch the cool droplets, letting them run through her fingers like threads of silk. The 8’o clock warning whistle sounded. She dried her hands on the fraying edges of her sleeve and stepped in front of the window. Last spring, hundreds of magpies came down from the mountain in a cloud of black and white that blotted out the sky, like a beautiful dream. And now? She is sitting on the stone steps in front of her house, practicing her alphabet backwards, and wondering what will be for supper, maybe, or who was winning the war. She wonders if there are stars in the desert and if she’ll ever find her way home. Everything keeps changing.