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HerNameWasKatrina

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HerNameWasKatrina

  1. 1. Her Name Was Katrina When can we go home? “In a little while.” she said. Walking mile after mile. To and fro, here and there, away from the clouds and into the dome. Never to sleep, never to eat, never to rest their weary feet. A little girl here, a little boy there. Families, frightened and lost. To share their pain, what is the cost? Day after day, night after night. Little girl here, little boy there. Mothers without fathers, fathers in the air. Home no longer there. When will the rain go away? “In a little while.” she said. Pacing round the room, day after day. Move the furniture. Shutter the windows. Try a little harder to force a smile. No lights, no phones, no gas to cook unfrozen meat. Little boy here, little girl there. Beyond the 9th Ward and into the French Quarter, drowning the Jazz Fest. Hour after hour, minute after minute. A little boy here, a little girl there. Mothers and fathers searching - for the way out. Scream and shout, without a doubt. When will somebody help us? “In a little while.” she said. Watching wind bent trees as waves fill up the windows. Debris and waves seal the street. Images float across the screen. People, voices, near and far. Little boy here, little girl there. Fear wakes up, courage takes a nap. Clocks run out. The race takes a face. Mothers and fathers talk. In secret. A little boy here, a little girl there. Speeding against the tide, waiting for a low. Life escapes without a care. When are we leaving? “In a little while.” she said. Running from room to room, gathering photos, mementos, of moments past. Lights flicker, children cry. Never a reason to ask why. A little girl here, a little boy there. Storms are storms, rain is rain. Locked in the house upon a chain. Too late to change direction, too late to run. Staying hidden behind the sun. Little girl here, little boy there. Feeling the pinch of the crow. When will it be over? “In a little while.” she said. Wanting stability, wanting peace, wanting more. The bowl of fruit sits and waits. The fish tank gurgles and hums. A little girl here, a little boy there. Who is there to listen, what is there to gain? Leaving a mark, leaving a stain. Where have they been, where can they go. Little girl here, little boy there. Each to his own, it’s only fair. Each breath in, out, equals one whispered prayer.

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