relief

Mt. St. Helens erupted once today. It wasn't a big deal, and I think the media morons are so disappointed no one slipped in molten lava, rolling downhill at mach speed headed for metropolis... no wait, that's another story. It blew, and like so many other things, it reminds me of another time and another place, but dimly...

I don't remember the first eruption. If it was between the years of 1980 and 1984, I was outrunning somebody, baby in tow, probably during my first escape to Coosbay. My face, bruised and swollen, was its own little catastrophe. I slept in my car, in a park, drinking wine and trying to keep track of the baby. I woke up in the middle of a family reunion, my own, and didn't know a soul. Some of the nice ladies looked at me and tried to see the resemblance to my mother, but it was a stretch on that day. I do look like her. But what I remember most clearly, is the pain of having the nice girls french braid my hair. My head was so sore. And when I walked into the restroom in the park, a pretty blonde woman came into the bathroom behind me. There was a wood moth hanging out near the base coving, under the barnwood panelling, as they will. They are beautiful, if you like that kind of thing. I pointed it out. She screamed, then looked up at me and screamed again, saying, "Oh my God. There are so many terrible things."

Boy Howdy.

I'm sorry to keep telling these stories.

But the point is the not remembering. I think I was the only person my age in Apollo 13 who didn't know how it ended. I leaned over to whisper in the ear of the man I was with. "Do they make it?" I asked.

They do. They make it back. It's amazing.