The sun never seems to rise after that day. April 12. Daylight seems to be cut short. 8 to 5, just like a work day. The smiles ceased to appear. Remembrance creates sharp twists in the heart. Thoughts that run through the mind send a piercing shiver down the spine. I remember the destruction as if it were yesterday.
Darkness surrounds. Despair engulfs the people. The people I grew up with. The people I care for dearly. Souls crushed as much as the pavement, crumbled in remains. Hearts seem to visibly tear with no signs of recovery. No one has slept for 40 days. Not with the noises. Not with the images that pound through the mind. Destruction. Death. Agony. I grabbed my ears; covered them as heard as I possibly could. Drown out the pleading voices of my neighbors.
Simmon's very own Town hall, the tallest building in the whole tall standing at 40 feet, was now brought to ash; an ash sandbox. No one is playing though. There isn't much left as I walk down Center Street toward's Angel's diner. Soot is everywhere. Hands are covered with soot, black and murky. Dirt covers faces like a grimy layer of foundation. I force myself not to look when I see Carol Saunders, the towns Miss. Crabtree teen face smeared with cuts running down her once perfect skin.
Chaos is everywhere. Nothing makes sense. Not in Simmons, the smallest town in California, population 1230. Some people are calm. Mrs. Parten is walking around as if she was still walking her mini poodle, Sally, down the street for her usual coffee at Danny's Bakery on Wilming Street. But this time there is nothing behind her eyes. Unrecognizable. People are yelling, shrieking, and running frantic. Some look as if their feet don't touch the ground. Floating just about the wretched asphalt. Food is scarce. Worrisome.
Mothers are screaming for help as their child's leg is crushed by the metal beam that once held up our postal office. I hear Mrs. Chandler scream. Her voice, normally controlled as if she was always being interviewed, now was cracking. I can't stomach to look. Coward, that is what I am. In a small town like mine, you know everyone and everything about them. Mr. Dowell, the American Literature teacher at my school was clutching his wife's body as if his mere touch was enough to save her. The poor soul too far gone. Glass surrounds them. His cries are loud and distinct like he is gulping air, drowning in his sorrow. A sea of tears mixed with blood that seems to morph together in puddles, illuminated by the shattered glass from the once beautiful sculpture of a young family. Sadistic.
The pain is all too real. Painful. Painful to watch the agony that fill the broken streets. Painful to feel helpless. Hopeless. I catch some of my classmates that are normally too self- absorbed to think about anything profound, looking up at the sky for answering, wondering. Why? Why the suffering? The torture. People look at each other but no words are exchanged. No words are spoken; just glances. Lost, tired without answers. There are no sirens. The street lights are mangled across the ground, providing no light for the quickly approaching darkness. Silence fills the gloomy air. Whimpers from the children pose the question. Is there any hope left?
I still awake at night, always at 2:28 am. My heart races and I'm wearing sweat. My red cotton t- shirt soaked. I don't recognize where I am at first. Nothing looks the same. The walls are different. The air is different. I have tired my best to forget but some things can't be erased from the memory. Sometimes the same pain can be relived over and over again. I don't know when the hope comes back. I don't think anyone does. There is one thing for sure: That earthquake took my sanity.
