Last year, about this time, I was in a funk before Katrina struck, and then -- in my deep nest in front of the television -- sunk further down.
I watched Americans pleading for help that did not come, and did not come -- knowing with a dark certainty at my center that if these Americans had been white and shiny, waving from Connecticut roofs, help would have come much sooner. And yes, I do, still, believe this.
I thought I would never forget; I thought I would remember every day.
But I do forget. Days have passed without thought of this; a thoughtlessness that I, white and northern and safe (as safe as any of us) in my little house, can afford.
I checked the Thesaurus; nearly all synonyms for anniversary are celebratory: ceremony, festival, holiday...
Last year, I was wordless for some time. Today, I repost the first poem I wrote after Katrina-- a commemoration:
Snapshot 21 September 02005
bird cries lift me
from the shallow
surface of sleepwhile i slept
flood walls broke
southern cities drownedthese northern hills
bleached tan
the maples turnbirches rustle
storms swirl
lifting the seasouth and north
autumn comes
north and souththe darkening
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