Helliwell 2019
Joan Didion
The wind was unrelenting during my time on Hornby,
ramming into my thoughts and morphing into metaphors.
When the hurricane-force winds started, my entire being was on edge.
They began in the darkness of November and continued until late March,
the windy season.
Galleon Beach Hornby Island 2020
The maddening roar of the ocean
the piercing howl of a spectral wind -
and the prolonged shriek of a tree as it snaps.
Terrorizing me night and day.
I covered my ears and sang to make it stop.
And then my house shook.
It'd start with a low tremble under the floor and
proceed to vigorously shake the walls.
Flo was deaf. She loved to watch the storms
More often than not,
a violent gust would come out of nowhere
and blast us.
No trembling of the floor, no shaking,
just a direct hit.
And then my mind raced with images burned into my teenage mind:
The Day After
Threads
Dancing with Tears in My Eyes
Flo and me
When the 96km/h winds hit, I looked to my cat for reassurance and
found comfort in her presence.
I set up a bed for us on the floor under the stairs,
thinking
it'd be a safe place if a tree crashed through the house.
mattress ready to sleep under the stairs, Flo watching some hot Viking show
Naively, I thought the winds would stop during the night,
but they persisted.
In the morning, they'd drop to around 50km/h, and
I'd step outside only to have my face stung by
bits of trees
sand
dirt
and who knows what else.
Fallout.
piles of winter storm debris from my yard
I could only survey the aftermath from my windows.
Trees, once proud and strong, now broken pieces of themselves
scattered across my yard,
branches six inches thick and seven feet long,
cedar boughs
pine cones
seedlings
bits and pieces of
this
that
and
the other thing.
An abandoned battlefield.
