When he speaks of her, the battered box
of old photos is sure to come out. A box full
of fading memories, tattered, black and white
with crimped corners saved for such moments.

She was a wild woman, the town’s people will
tell you. She hurt ol’ Henry the most. She didn’t
hang around long enough to see what she’d done.
Everyone in town has a story about her.

When they speak of her, palms rustle in the wind,
and on good days, boats beat gently against the
dock and the clouds stalk the sun for shade. The
words are excited and sad, like the high winds
of a hurricane.

Her name was Carla, it was ’61 – written large on
the battered box.
January 2014

Port O’Connor after Hurricane Carla