Tornado Drill

A loud beeping preceded the TV screen turning black, then the message came. A tornado warning had been issued for the county next to ours.

Zoe shrieked, Zack whimpered. I shrugged, then got into the shower.

Yes, the shower.

I'm from Florida, and I know that sometimes bad storms destroy houses, but more often, bad storms disrupt the electricity. My friends Alicia who lived through Hurricane Andrew said the worst part of her post-storm life was not being able to blow dry her hair for weeks.

Midnight, Hot

The first week he was sick, I was distractedly sending my energy to friends who were walking through a nightmare I cannot blog about.

The second week he was sick, I did my best to pick him up from preschool early, but I guess it wasn't enough.

This week, he was really sick, coughing and feverish and frustrated and sad.

During the day, that is.

At night, when the high fever came, he was someone else.

On Saturday night, when his fever was highest, he woke up almost giddy.

Lucid, happy, sweating, he pushed his cheek against mine, waking me up to talk.

"You're the best Mami in the world. I love you. I love my room. This is the best house in the world. I love my toothbrush and my teachers and my sister...."

"Mmmm, yesss," I would answer, resisting the urge to check my blackberry and see what time it was, counting how many hours until I'd wake up, how many hours until I wouldn't be able to get up and run, how many hours until I could have a hot cup of coffee and think of things to do that didn't involve slipping into the nightmares that have stalked me lately.

"Tell me a story Mami, tell me a story about....something."

"Mmm, a story. OK." I answered, then sat silent, hoping he was only talking in his sleep.

"Mami... tell me a story about a dog with no tail. Who gave other dogs bones. Tell me a really long story about who he gave bones to, and about the families he lived with. Then, after that, tell me a short story."

"Ahhh, umm, once upon a time.... there was a dog who thought he had a tail, but then he didn't, but everyone else knew he didn't, but they didn't tell him.... and...he had black feet and a white body, with spots shaped like doggy treats... and...."

Zack twisted his body against mine, pushing his feet under me. I put my hand on his hot stomach, wondering how high his fever was.

"Mami? Are you too sleepy to talk? You can just tell me a short story then, a story about a cookie that ran away because it was afraid of milk."

"Umm. Milk...."

"Mami? Mami? Are you awake? I love my room. Thank you for cleaning my room. These sheets smell so good."

He turned over, exhaled deeply.

I ran my hand across his bony back.

Minutes later, while I sat wide awake, he coughed and kicked the covers off.

Soon enough, he was asleep, quietly breathing through his mouth because his nose was so stuffed up.

Because he didn't remind me to tell him the stories, I didn't.

Instead, I stared out his window, looking up to the stars, letting new stories dance around in my head.

Grilled Cheese

I'm unpacking bags from Target and announce to Zack, "Look! I bought you a grilled cheese maker!"

Even though he still has a fever, he jumps up and down, fists in the air. "Yay! Yay! Yay! Yahooooooo!"

As I pull it out and settle it on the counter, I remember.

"Abuela had one like this. In our family, grilled cheese is a gourmet recipe..."

Zack hugs my leg. "Abuela had one? Does this mean I'm going to die, too?"

I exhale. "We all die, right? We start dying when we're born. But no, this grilled cheese maker is not a sign or anything."

"This didn't kill her?"

"No, Abuela didn't die from any appliance. Or from cooking.... (the idea makes me laugh, but I can't, because my son is so sensitive he'll think I'm laughing at him). Her heart wore out."

"Is MY heart going to wear out?"

"Yes. And when it does, you get to go back to where you came from, back to where you don't need a heart. You didn't have one before you jumped into my belly, and you were perfectly fine."

Happy with the explanation, Zack settles himself at the table, finally hungry.

Moon, forgive me.

It is 5am, and I should be leaving my house just about now, running a 5K under the brilliant full moon.

But I don't.

It's cold, and I am writing the story that has been bubbling in my head and my life for ten years.

Finally, after writing in circles, not writing at all, and writing almost complete books about other things, I am finally there.

I know exactly where and when and how to begin this book, and I now know where and when and how to end it.

So, moon, forgive me.

I am writing.

I have stories to tell.

4 Artists

3 Writers and a Photographer