The house is still mostly empty, and a slew of boxes populate the halls and bedrooms, but we are done for today, and my brother and I sit across from each other, elbows on the Beech-stained table, sipping warm beer; as the refrigerator arrives tomorrow. The white walls lack any sort of pictures or knick-knacks, and the light bounces around the room, illuminating the area underneath our chins; stagelighting in a barren dining room.
At some point, we know it is time.
Pushing out our chairs, we walk to the backdoor, and descend the long wooden stairway to the backyard. The sun is newly gone, and the sky is marked by incoming thunderheads in the distance, and a low white light that extends a dome a few blocks away, likely the neighborhood Little League field.
The air is cool, and the t-shirts we wear are ill-suited for our task.
A shadowbox fence lines the back of the property, and on the side of the yard, a glistening pile of mud stands roughly ten feet above the freshly cut dew grass.
We cross the yard, light from the window casting weak, thin shadows before us, our bare feet leaving water tracks through the lawn.
The mound is bulbous, a giant dripcastle of mud, and as we approach it, the pulsating becomes apparent; dull reflections on the surface heave and shudder from the pile, a result of its tragic contents.
The mud covers a host of mothers and their babies, slowly moving beneath the gathered earth, and as we watch, another arrives.
She walks slowly down the hill on the side of the house, wearing a loose, white t-shirt and worn-in jeans. Her hair is short, easy to maintain. Her baby sits on her hip, arms flailing and waving to us, tiny eyes in the darkness taking in everything the new scene has to offer.
She asks us to bury her.
We nod as always, noting the tear tracks that trail her cheeks, no mascara to worry about.
At this point there’s no reason to plead.
A look of thanks, and she moves towards the shifting mass, lying against it, allowing it to take their weight.
We begin with her feet, scooping handfuls of the wet mud, and packing it over her. We are on our knees, mother and child watching us as we reach her hips, and she moves the baby (we are convinced it is a girl, something in the smile) to her chest, the child reaching out to hug the mother’s face.
We move to the torso, arms caked to the elbow now, our knees wet from the grass despite our workpants.
The sun is gone, the memory of the clouds fades, and the halo of baseball lights go out. Only the yellow glow of the house windows is left, highlighting the figures we are burying.
We cover her face at last, and the baby coos softly as we cover hers as well; both of us openly weeping now.
My brother is up first, wringing his hands, and I stand as well.
We walk from the larger mound, away from the new twitching additions, and use the garden hose to wash the mud from our arms. The water is colder than the night air, and it bites our skin, our calloused hands, as the mud disappears back to the ground.
We walk up the stairs, take our places at the table, sip our warm beers, and mouth our prayers in silence.
There’s always the running,
a destination of safety,
planes or lifeboats or higher ground.
A close call as the disaster approaches,
before they
(and we)
triumph over nature,
avoid the projected cataclysm,
as long as we have love and family and hope
and Twizzlers
at our fingertips.
We marvel at the graphically generated flood
that crests Himalayan mountaintops,
watch in awe as the 3D meteor
irradiates sea water,
sending skyscraper tidal waves
toward unsuspecting cities.
The volcano explodes,
painting the screen,
rivers of flame pouring
through quaint suburban neighborhoods
and we cheer it,
rattling our ice-filled cups
and grinning with kernel-laced teeth.
And last night,
on a much smaller screen,
the celebrity designer was in tears.
He said that it was like swimming
in a soup of lifeless bodies
and babies,
that the smell stays with him,
that his lover was lost so suddenly.
A black river breeches its banks,
spilling into a car park,
and tosses yachts into highway overpasses.
People in the distance flee too slowly,
and inevitable prediction takes over,
as the amateur videographer
shifts his shaky frame.
Bloated corpses wash up for months,
the tsunami’s only concession,
and the Pacific Rim
is littered with the taken dead.
There is no second act
as the waters run their course,
and the ark they needed
does not exist
outside the now ruined theaters.
