Sandy

Power stayed on all last night and we woke up to a cozy warm house in the midst of a grey, grey day. I hope no one goes trick-or-treating tomorrow. I feel so incredibly grateful to have come through this hurricane with zero damage and really not even any inconvenience. Yeah, O. won't be commuting into Manhattan for several days (trains are down), but hey, that's actually kind of a plus.

Flooded Hoboken and darkened Manhattan

We took a walk this afternoon and saw a lot of trees down, a few wires dangling haplessly, many people wandering the city in pairs or small groups, discussing the damage and taking photos. A short walk from our house is the cliff that overlooks Hoboken and the Manhattan skyline. We stood at its edge with a couple dozen others, staring at the city that never sleeps. No light, no movement. Closer by, Hoboken lay drowning, a hockey rink turned into a swimming pool that no one should swim in, a pickup truck floating like a motorboat in a flooded street.

Welcome to Hoboken, Birthplace of Frank Sinatra and Baseball.

 Apparently the whole city is flooded and powerless. If we hadn't moved here in January, that would have been us. So grateful we moved, and so grateful that this is where we moved to.

My thoughts and prayers to those less fortunate in this disaster.

Hurricane

The sirens return every few minutes. The wind chimes down the block are still going strong, a persistent jangle. The wind drowns them out in a roar, on and off, wildly swinging the telephone wires and power lines and myriad other cables. The street lights are on for the moment, as is the power inside, and with it internet. But down the block the stoplights are blinking red. Stop, go; stop, go. Jangle jangle go the wind chimes.

Inside the lights are on, we just ran the microwave, the heat is still working, we have hot water. On the table are oatmeal raisin cookies with a generous dose of cinnamon--three dozen, less however many we ate. In the refrigerator are two casseroles of pumpkin soup, cooked in the pumpkin itself, which seeped out into the broiler pan and overflowed onto the bottom of the oven. On the counter, the glass pitcher and the soup-pot and all the large bottles stand, filled with drinking water. We have not so much prepared, as hoarded, making all the use we can of these necessary conveniences (power, water, gas), while we can.

The wind picks up again, wheezing between the houses and terrorizing the trees. The wind chimes jangle. I consider again whether we should move our bed away from the window. Is it inevitable that the tree I stare at every morning from my bed should fall tonight, and hit the house? The storm is passing. . .

The wind chimes jangle again as my husband runs water (it still runs!) in the kitchen sink, and opens the refrigerator (still cold!) for something. I consider, and decide in favor of caution, as I always do.

Thunder

I can't get over the thunderstorms here. Just past noon, and suddenly the light has been swallowed up. A roaring tears through the clouds and bursts through the open windows. The wind whirls inside, swinging the venetian blinds inward, knocking over bottles, snatching up scraps of paper. The serene sky has stretched itself into a lion, roaring as it stalks the city. Rain runs through the streets like many small feet.

Now the drops sprinkle the window panes. Now they batter against the glass and they burst through the screens. The rain is trying to get in. I close two windows, and return.

Listen, the water is drumming on the tin window sill, drumming on the AC unit. Listen, a lion is roaring in the clouds. The streets turn silver, and the people hide in their boxes and holes.

Now that the black sky is blowing even colder air at me, now that sleep is addling my brain, I am folded up under the bed again, wondering how you are again. My life has its frustrations (the demons of over-extension and the imps of unruly software), but you--

You live in the storm, amid the gathering ions. Static electricity shimmers in the air around you. Your shorn hair stands on end, and your fingertips flash and crackle. Soon the lightning will strike again, I fear. Yes, I fear for you, for the thunder that will shake your skeleton, the vibrations reverberating between your very vertebrae. I cannot protect you. You are soaring through the stratosphere; I am planted in the earth. I babble poetry while drama pours down on you. You are drenched. The water scintillates in the flashes of light, and I am dazzled. I cannot watch.

But I trust every storm subsides, someday. The clouds will cry themselves out, and the thunderheads will run out of words, and the wind will sigh instead of shrieking. As the air settles, you'll drift down to land. And I will still be waiting, and the earth will still be solid, and you will stand still again.