The untouched survivor

To all appearances it was an ordinary house.  It looked neither new nor old, neither  posh nor impoverished.  Yet there it stood, all alone, seemingly unscathed amid a sea of destruction.

The address was 463 Elm Street, if that made any difference anymore.  For what had been Elm Street was a mass of tangled branches, smashed bricks and mortar, metal sidings and other odds and ends, the strewn personal effects of dozens of families and lives.  Next door the only sign left of what had once been someone's pride and joy, a home purchased with the sweat, tears, and interest payments of more than two decades, was a forlorn looking cement foundation, and parts of two walls.  The house to the right had fared slightly better, but a total loss nonetheless.  The residents?  At this point, the day after the storm that had borne down with all its fury on this small fishing town tucked somewhere on the Maine seacoast, who could say?  A few people dazed individuals could be seen walking and making their way gingerly through the rubble of the neighborhood, but who they were or were they had lived was anybody's guess.

But I had had my fill of death and destruction for one day.  All of the previous night and and through the morning, after the winds had finally died down, and the storm surge had mostly subsided, I had been helping in the search and rescue of survivors.  We had felt the power of the storm ourselves, most of us haling from a town just about 10 miles down the seacoast.  But while our village had sustained some damage, when the news reached us of the enormity of the destruction up the coast, a number had volunteered on the spot to go and lend a helping hand.  But none of us had been prepared for what we had seen with our own eyes.  It been extremely dark, but we had responded to calls for help from within the ruins of buildings, and rescued those stumbling through half-flooded streets.  Only though when dawn cast its feeble light through the still ominous looking sky could we breathe in what had really happened.  A whole town destroyed.  Seemingly not one building had been spared destruction, whether from the enormous power of the waves, or from the savage winds that must have attacked with hurricane force from all angles.  The picturesque cove on which this town had been nestled had somehow allowed the storm to funnel all its remaining energy into one enormous rampage, completely oblivious to the lives and memories being shattered.

Now it was past midday, and the sun was peering tentatively from behind friendly looking clouds.  We had rescued many, but still had no idea how many more lay dead or clinging to life under hundreds of smashed homes.  But I myself, I had needed to get away. There was much more to do...but I was numb, unable to absorb any more.  I had started walking climbing up through the broken lanes, not knowing where I was heading.  Here up in the remnants of a neighborhood on a hill overlooking the harbor, at least the flood waters had not reached.  Yet the wind had rejoiced all the more, wreaking havoc on what must have been pretty tree lined streets.

Then there it was, this one home, sitting peacefully like a Buddha, with its eyes closed, meditating on what had been, and seemingly unaware of what lay around it.  It was the last place that needed rescue, but nevertheless, here I was, drawn to it inexorably like a magnet.  Tentatively I opened the white picket gate, and walked slowly up past the neatly tended lawn, with a few wind-blown leaves lying carelessly on it.  Standing on the porch, I lingered unnecessarily in front of the door, hesitating  one last moment.  The ring of the doorbell startled me out of my half-trance.  Then 30 seconds maybe, and the light blue lace curtains on the windows to the side lifted slightly.  Then the door opened.  There she stood.  An elderly woman, probably past 80, standing pale in her long nightgown.  Her grayish-blue eyes met mine.  I could see fatigue in her face from a sleepless night, and a gentle expression could not completely obscure an underlying anxiety.  Her eyes especially to me seemed to speak volumes of words that would never be uttered.  Of a little girl skipping on the seashore, giggling as she touched her toes in the lapping waves, of love found and lost again, of tenderness, yet resolve, forged through a lifetime.  Was there a son who had gone to war and then never returned there also?  Her eyes did not waver from mine, but betrayed the moistness of tears  as yet unshed.  Finally, she said, "Please, do come in."

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