I closely followed the tornado coverage yesterday because I was worried about my mother getting killed. The National Weather Service had issued a rare warning earlier in the day of a “PDS” (Particularly Dangerous Situation) for most of Mississippi. The tornadoes ended up south of her. There were multiple fatalities, leveled homes and churches, thousands currently without electricity.
But as terrifying as it was to watch unfold in real time, it wasn’t the virus. There was a clear and unequivocal government warning. There was visible radar. A near-certain direction on a map. Color-coded levels of severity. A competent team of meteorologists giving straightforward directions, naming specific streets and landmarks in the path. The exact number of minutes you had left to take cover. A beginning, a middle, an end.
The storms were frightening enough that I briefly fantasized about living somewhere with a tornado shelter. I remember the chipped white paint on the door of my grandmother’s shelter in south Mississippi. I remember the square of pure blackness when she opened it and the fear of what was inside.
My anxiety was still so high around 1 a.m. that I was certain I saw a worm on my bedroom floor. Overwhelmed with disgust and confusion, I started to cry. But when I picked it up with a tissue I saw that it was just a piece of yarn.
Today the birds sound beautiful.
