–After the Eastern Tornado Outbreak on June 2, 1998
Trapped, in our Sunday best,
in standstill traffic; as
rain raised the river to tickle
the road beneath our tires;
at the mercy of that horrid alarm, its
intermittent, teeth-grinding cacophony
rattling the car radio,
the monotonous voice,
so nonchalant in its declaration that, no,
contrary to countless tests of this, the
Emergency Broadcast System, blaring
in our jaded ears for the entirety of
our varying ages—my baby boomer mother,
my sister and I covering
Generation X and Y,
my Millennial baby niece crying in a car seat—
This. Is. Not. A. Test.
And there was no escape
from the tornado barreling down
that very highway in our direction. The only question:
would the twister reach us before the river?
That slow motion race between forces
of nature held us captive, frozen in terror. I reached
for the passenger door just as the car leapt forward,
as traffic gave way to hope, and we spied two figures
in bright yellow raincoats braving the storm to shout:
“Take the next exit, no matter what!“
Later, we huddled
beneath a darkened underpass, that portentous exit, watching
tornadoes dance their twisting destruction
at all four corners of horizon. Stuck in the storm’s eye, the heart
of its ravenous compass, we thanked God
for those highway prophets and, even more, for
our having heeded their clarion call.
V.C. McCabe is a West Virginian poet and music journalist whose work appears, or is forthcoming, in Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, The Minnesota Review, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Coldfront, and elsewhere. She can be found online at vcmccabe.com.
