Aftermath

Sweat pooled around the mask covering the lower half of my face. As I swiped it away, the grit of the dirt and ash that had already clung to it lightly scratched my skin. I wasn't sure if I should be irritated because an open wound is dangerous here, or relieved that something wanted to cling to me.

The glare from the burning heat made looking ahead hard, but I knew I had to push through. In front of me are the remnants of a neighborhood, one that was full of life at one point in time. White picket fences and gnomes and manicured lawns. Families called this place home - like Mrs. Cunning, who lived with four cats all named after presidents, or the Rutherford's, who brought homemade soup to neighbors who were sick - and now it was only home to debris and devastation.

This was home to me too, once upon a time.

I was washing dishes with the TV on, and that's how I learned of the bombs dropping. A "horrible retaliation" the news caster had called it, but I knew all it meant was more lives lost. I was then drying my soapy, waterlogged hands when I heard the next part - one of the towns affected by the explosion was my parents’ home.

It was a cliche, but hearing about the aftermath of a pointless war between governments was different than seeing it in person.

As the road stretched on, becoming less familiar with each step, I notice a car - it's roof is smashed down into the street, adding to the rest of the metal and glass and rock that covered the road, but the exposed bottom is intact enough for me to step up onto it. It groaned under my weight, but I didn't stop.

The view from the top isn't much better. Looking out into what was once a thriving community, I feel my chest become heavy. My throat feels like something is camped out at the back of it. I let out a cough, but it felt fake, like I only did it to remind myself to breathe despite the heat and dirt around me. I needed to breath to remind myself I am alive even though I'm surrounded by death.

Or maybe I coughed because I am putting off seeing what’s ahead.

My feet ache as they land flat on the pavement. The car I was on wobbles and creaks as it settles back into it's wrong position.

Before I came here, I took for granted the comfort of my little nest. My plush couch with soft blankets and cushy throw pillows became a defensive fort as I stared at articles on the screen of my phone. The tips of my fingers stung with each swipe; the cuticles had been assaulted by my anxiety for days at that point.

"Unknown Number of Deaths"

"Officials Recommend Not to Leave Your Home"

"Ways to Protect Yourself in Case of More Attacks"

Each new headline left a deeper sinking feeling in my stomach. We were told to stay home, stay quiet, stay obedient, then maybe we would be lucky enough to survive.

When my tears finally dried up, and my body was so tense that staying still felt unbearable, I knew I had to go and see this neighborhood for myself. I had to see if I could find the bodies of my parents.

My foot steps on something soft, and as I look down, I can feel the contents of my stomach forcing itself out of me. Chunks of beef jerky and dried mango spew out as I grab my abdomen. My eyes are shut tight, tears quickly form and begin dropping. I know I need to open them and see the severed arm I just stepped on, but something inside me is begging me not to.

I wasn’t built to see something so graphic, but this is why I’m here. Slowly, I open my eyes and see a few final tears drop onto the arm below me.

It’s covered in dirt and soot. The fingernails are brown from grime. The skin is dull and grey and lifeless. There are specks that were likely once freckles. And I know this doesn’t, or didn’t, belong to someone in my family.

I trail my hand along the back of the severed hand. The skin is smooth. Young. As I realize that this arm likely belonged to someone close to my age, I drop it back down and pick myself up. I know that if I stay and linger here, I will never continue.

My feet become heavier the closer to exhaustion I feel. Jumping over cracks in a road and large chunks of what used to be part of the sidewalk is weighing on me. I pull down my mask to gulp down water from my backpack, and I can feel a light wind graze my lips. I want to get lost in that feeling – freeing a part of me from a cage, feeling the freedom across my bare skin – but I don’t know what’s in the air around this area. I put the mask back when I’m done.

Finally, I stand in front of what used to be my childhood home. Now, it’s more like a pile of broken memories, levelled out by other’s people’s whims.

The hair on my body stands straight. I had imagined this moment many times over the last few days, but being here feels different. I feel numb. A level of understanding washes over me; my family is gone. My old home is levelled out. My childhood friends are likely dead. And here I am, standing in front of forgotten moments and achieved milestones and missed phone calls and regrets that I didn’t do more before now.

It was too much before I got here, and it’s too much now.

Despite my body yelling at me to go back, to go home, I decide to stay. My legs tremble as I push through rubble, and my arms throb with pain as I dig through waste. They can take houses away. They can take the fences and the lawn decorations and the trees, but they can't take my memories.

I will be here until I find them. I will be here until the thought of them being gone doesn’t hurt the deepest parts of myself. I will be here, digging through the remnants of us, until I can no longer feel the grief of this loss. Even if that means I must stay here forever.