My hands sweating, my tremors shaking them violently. They shake more than the land under me. My heart feels like it's going to burst from my weighted chest everytime the low tone rumbles, hums in the distance, growing louder as it nears. There is no warning, no security, no gauge of violence that it threatens to bring. Some are stronger, some are weak and mere hiccups of the land settling miles away. Still, the memories of 20 hours ago still flash, my body reacting desperately, fretting the worse is here, again. the walls and ceiling creak with the movement, windows tick, and the wine bottles on the top of the cabinets click as they tap against each other. The fridge squeaks as it shakes gently with the waves. Ornaments on the tree shake lightly, the rumble moving past us. I stop, forcing myself to hold back the emotional tears. The only place that is safe is in a doorway, but I cannot justify living my life there. I have to depart its sense of security and return to my life, folding laundry and doing homework. It will be five minutes, maybe 25 minutes, even hours, till we feel the next one. The anticipation is thick, every sense firing at it's highest setting to detect the next threat to survival. Slowly, we convince ourselves that it's safe, that it's going to be okay, and we relax. I lean back, close my eyes for a short nap, take a deep breath, and hear the distant rumbling again. Aaron's hand rests itself on my thigh, patting it gently. No matter my urges to flee, get into the car and drive away, he consoles my fears and the rumbling stops. "There," he says gently. "Not so bad." His hand lifts from me and he continues drawing a willow tree. They are getting smaller, it will be okay, we just have to tackle one aftershock at a time.
