caroline ridgway

1500 miles from home, the howling winds woke me up, banging against the windows and whipping branches. In another 8 hours or so, and through the evening, the winds will reach and breach 100mph. The palms will bob and weave, dodging the knockout blow. Other trees will succumb, and we’ll find them roots up, in defeat. The rain is here, too; when will the Gulf start its migration inland, seeping across thresholds and up walls? Does it happen gradually, or rush in like a tidal wave? My childhood home, in one of the older communities in town, is on a lake. As a kid, we had a storm that brought the tarpon swimming to our doorstep. Later today, they may swim through the living room. My apartment now is west of 41, thankfully on the second floor. Assuming the windows and roof hold, I’m praying I’ll find my memories intact – my grandmother’s paintings on the walls and her furniture, the clothing and other items saved from Will’s apartment after his death, the dozens and dozens of books stacked and shelved in each room. We’ve fled. We have our lives in hand, and immeasurable gratitude for that. My fear for those still in place keeps me awake along with the wind. I try to keep perspective. In light of our own evacuation, I think about the desperation that drives refugees from far-flung countries, and how abstract if genuine is my sympathy for them. I think about the resources that allowed us to get on planes or in cars and leave, and the flexibility to cross borders and time zones without concern. I think about the water and food stocked in my kitchen at home; a blessing that it can be replaced with relative ease. I think about the love and support from so many, and the invitations I received from around the country to take shelter. I think about the friends who stayed behind, not because they wanted to, but because they have loved ones in their final hours of life who couldn’t be left, or who had welcomed new life in recent days and hours, and so equally felt compelled to stay. I think about the sadness I will feel if in a few days time we find that our homes and businesses have been destroyed, but also the perseverance in digging in to clean up and rebuild, because the human spirit is inspiringly, frequently remarkable. I think about the nearly half-century history of my father’s business in our community, and pray for its continued viability; doesn’t he deserve that, at least? I think about our planet and its people, pushed up to and even past breaking points. I think about the egos and greed that have prevented adequate acknowledgment of and action towards the fractured climate. I think about the moment earlier tonight, in the waning hours of a perfect September day in New England, watching my best friend and her kids run around and play in their backyard; there is still innocence and purity there. I think about my brother, and that losing him will always be the worst kind of loss. I think about anyone who is, right now, afraid, and wish I could be with them, for mutual comfort. I think about the power of words, and thoughts, and count on those to continue to carry me. I hope to get some sleep, because the weeks ahead will require our full attention.