by Justine C. Tajonera
I felt a tremor at ten thirty this morning.
It was only a few seconds. I thought I had
just imagined it, feeling silly after having blurted, "Earthquake!"
at no one in particular, just acknowledging the swaying
of my desk, until I saw the news feeds on my computer.
I had a headache at the time. My mind was whirling
with war and product testing and dizzying changes
and my children and the merciless, pounding heat
of this summer and climate change that we attempted
to teach to our son.
I am standing at the edge of something.
I remember waking up at midnight on the 21st of December
2012 and looking out the window. It was hot for
December and I was wondering about the end of the world.
Perhaps it doesn't happen in one day.
I survive these little tremors every day, waiting for
the tsunami that doesn't come. But when it does,
I cannot yet imagine my grief much less picking up
pieces from what is left.
So I drink a glass of water and reach out to
the blankness of peace. I steady myself and breathe
and breathe and give thanks and breathe.