I sit there bitterly, stung by the fact that I am buckled in between Teta and Mama, and my eyesight, no matter how I contort my head, stretches no further than the musty car. I’m stuck among my futile consolations. But the sky is there. It taunts me with its unbearable silence, slipping to raucous echoes. Out of my sight, but fresh in my mind. Breaking the unsuspected trance that found its way upon us, the little square of light in Mama's hands darkens. We wait. Jiddo, Baba, Teta, and I, for the silence to be broken.
“So that explains the dark skies,” she starts reluctantly. “It’s not just a storm ... it’s the same level of All Four Hills.”
All Four Hills is the term for the level of terror and intensity of the wind that ripped through Beauford in 1905. It was devastating, mostly known for striking the new pride and beauty of the town – the bridges – down to their bases. The talk of the county, which proudly sat atop the Four Hills, were bashed to nothingness. The next day, the town crept to life and was delivered the news. All Four Hills were hit that night. Here, in this car, we face this same storm, which hasn’t been seen in over 100 years.
Those last three words she uttered slice into my ears and stay there. The sky roars in pain again, and I am suddenly aware of how small everything is, aware of how the car advances so reluctantly up the street. Swirled by the masses, by the winds of the world, lay a town in hideout. Everyone seems to have vanished. Lit by the meager street lights, I see a town reinvented, set like a dollhouse all boxed away, as though I could just pick up the town and rearrange it. The boisterous streets and not-yet-familiar smells that greeted me in the morning and drew me in all afternoon are gone. The two days we have stayed here seem so detached and distant from my mind, though I see a strange beauty that glosses over this frozen town. My Baba's voice rips my eyes from the town center and brings them back to the car.
“We need to get out.” His voice emerges slowly to my mind and seeps into my ears. One drip at a time, I bring myself to answer, calling to the voice my eyes can’t find.
“Why? Isn’t it too dangerous?” I say with every ounce of hope that we won’t be pulled from this dingy sanctuary. My voice, quivering with every rut the tires encounter, questions something too big for his worried voice to answer. I try to wrap myself tightly in it all – the darkness, the warmth the car holds, deemed so small and pathetic just moments before. I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
“Habibti, we’re nearing the bridges. They can’t support the car.” My body becomes rigid. Frozen, even when the car sputters and sets itself to a halt on the wiry path. My seat belt tightens against my body, and the cold breath of movement greets my skin. This is real; undeniable. There, in the stillness, just past the window, lies the sight I have seen in history books, inked onto silky pages and crackly new covers. Movement envelops me, but I lie still. Doors are ripped open, and I hear the pressure escape the car. Sucked away from me, an inhale never taken, the breath rising and falling among the trees so tall and lumbering, they creak with all of their being. I search for my Jiddo's eyes. Clear and bright against the dark sky, they seem to capture the light remaining. The light still fights its way through the storm's presence.
Life. My body is moving, and though stricken with fear, it progresses toward the piercing remains of the bridge. I scour the surroundings again and again in disbelief, my eyes trying not to look behind, back to the car. I count the four figures fighting the wind alongside me, and study the distant decrepit bridge, blurred by relentless sheets of rain, then back to the four I can’t imagine losing. We press onward.
My family, although cramped from the car ride, moves with conviction and strength. Teta, with her cane, with each placement so purposeful. I imagine the click of the metal to the ground. In my mind, the wind hasn’t ripped away its comforting rhythm. My Baba cautiously surveying the defeat that surrounds us. My ears are now unresponsive to the constant rumbling and thunder, and I feel the pounding of my feet to this uneasy ground. I am numb to the monotony of the drenched surroundings, and the cold of soaked clothes clings with desperation to my body. I hear a deep-welled noise of metal cracking against itself. My eyes are brought right to the bridge, now just feet away. My mind is frayed, eyes tired, but above all, fear courses through me with the up-close sight of the first bridge perched on the hill – the gaping holes of the bridge, the ground deep below.
A sound emerges from me, greater than my own voice, “This is going to break.”
I hear my voice stretch, and bite the wind, and travel through to Mama, who cries back, “We have to try.” She takes a long, grounded breath. “I got you. I got you.”
Baba, already partially on the bridge, points to a long beam, unbroken. I step gingerly, then further upon the remains of the bridge. The metal groans and my eyes shut tight. I don’t want to see the life I’m risking. A broken railing is to my left. I touch my hands to it, hardly feeling its weathered edges. I grip as hard as I can, finding a rhythm, with Baba and Jiddo close behind. My eyes wander back to see Teta and Mama. A breath fills my lungs, the smell of earth, and solitude. Life. I am living, and we are moving. The storm seems smaller now, just slightly more distant. I feel the soft mossiness of the dirt road ahead, clouded from the storm, sturdy. I can hear my Teta's cane press down to the ground behind me. I feel her hand in mine, her soft skin trembling, moving with the rain. My eyes well with tears as I look back to the devastated bridge, designs of shiny metal no longer, the wrought iron extravagances lost to my eyes, lost in the storm all those years ago, that took and took until what I see today.
I finally remember the sky, and with deep satisfaction I see it, in its whole, lit up with fury melting down to me. Its great sound rumbles straight through me. But there is something more – something new that surfaces, that rebuilds the ruins, the result of a storm like this. Even though decrepit now, it’s greater than it ever was.
“So that explains the dark skies,” she starts reluctantly. “It’s not just a storm ... it’s the same level of All Four Hills.”
All Four Hills is the term for the level of terror and intensity of the wind that ripped through Beauford in 1905. It was devastating, mostly known for striking the new pride and beauty of the town – the bridges – down to their bases. The talk of the county, which proudly sat atop the Four Hills, were bashed to nothingness. The next day, the town crept to life and was delivered the news. All Four Hills were hit that night. Here, in this car, we face this same storm, which hasn’t been seen in over 100 years.
Those last three words she uttered slice into my ears and stay there. The sky roars in pain again, and I am suddenly aware of how small everything is, aware of how the car advances so reluctantly up the street. Swirled by the masses, by the winds of the world, lay a town in hideout. Everyone seems to have vanished. Lit by the meager street lights, I see a town reinvented, set like a dollhouse all boxed away, as though I could just pick up the town and rearrange it. The boisterous streets and not-yet-familiar smells that greeted me in the morning and drew me in all afternoon are gone. The two days we have stayed here seem so detached and distant from my mind, though I see a strange beauty that glosses over this frozen town. My Baba's voice rips my eyes from the town center and brings them back to the car.
“We need to get out.” His voice emerges slowly to my mind and seeps into my ears. One drip at a time, I bring myself to answer, calling to the voice my eyes can’t find.
“Why? Isn’t it too dangerous?” I say with every ounce of hope that we won’t be pulled from this dingy sanctuary. My voice, quivering with every rut the tires encounter, questions something too big for his worried voice to answer. I try to wrap myself tightly in it all – the darkness, the warmth the car holds, deemed so small and pathetic just moments before. I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
“Habibti, we’re nearing the bridges. They can’t support the car.” My body becomes rigid. Frozen, even when the car sputters and sets itself to a halt on the wiry path. My seat belt tightens against my body, and the cold breath of movement greets my skin. This is real; undeniable. There, in the stillness, just past the window, lies the sight I have seen in history books, inked onto silky pages and crackly new covers. Movement envelops me, but I lie still. Doors are ripped open, and I hear the pressure escape the car. Sucked away from me, an inhale never taken, the breath rising and falling among the trees so tall and lumbering, they creak with all of their being. I search for my Jiddo's eyes. Clear and bright against the dark sky, they seem to capture the light remaining. The light still fights its way through the storm's presence.
Life. My body is moving, and though stricken with fear, it progresses toward the piercing remains of the bridge. I scour the surroundings again and again in disbelief, my eyes trying not to look behind, back to the car. I count the four figures fighting the wind alongside me, and study the distant decrepit bridge, blurred by relentless sheets of rain, then back to the four I can’t imagine losing. We press onward.
My family, although cramped from the car ride, moves with conviction and strength. Teta, with her cane, with each placement so purposeful. I imagine the click of the metal to the ground. In my mind, the wind hasn’t ripped away its comforting rhythm. My Baba cautiously surveying the defeat that surrounds us. My ears are now unresponsive to the constant rumbling and thunder, and I feel the pounding of my feet to this uneasy ground. I am numb to the monotony of the drenched surroundings, and the cold of soaked clothes clings with desperation to my body. I hear a deep-welled noise of metal cracking against itself. My eyes are brought right to the bridge, now just feet away. My mind is frayed, eyes tired, but above all, fear courses through me with the up-close sight of the first bridge perched on the hill – the gaping holes of the bridge, the ground deep below.
A sound emerges from me, greater than my own voice, “This is going to break.”
I hear my voice stretch, and bite the wind, and travel through to Mama, who cries back, “We have to try.” She takes a long, grounded breath. “I got you. I got you.”
Baba, already partially on the bridge, points to a long beam, unbroken. I step gingerly, then further upon the remains of the bridge. The metal groans and my eyes shut tight. I don’t want to see the life I’m risking. A broken railing is to my left. I touch my hands to it, hardly feeling its weathered edges. I grip as hard as I can, finding a rhythm, with Baba and Jiddo close behind. My eyes wander back to see Teta and Mama. A breath fills my lungs, the smell of earth, and solitude. Life. I am living, and we are moving. The storm seems smaller now, just slightly more distant. I feel the soft mossiness of the dirt road ahead, clouded from the storm, sturdy. I can hear my Teta's cane press down to the ground behind me. I feel her hand in mine, her soft skin trembling, moving with the rain. My eyes well with tears as I look back to the devastated bridge, designs of shiny metal no longer, the wrought iron extravagances lost to my eyes, lost in the storm all those years ago, that took and took until what I see today.
I finally remember the sky, and with deep satisfaction I see it, in its whole, lit up with fury melting down to me. Its great sound rumbles straight through me. But there is something more – something new that surfaces, that rebuilds the ruins, the result of a storm like this. Even though decrepit now, it’s greater than it ever was.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.