Natural Disaster by Alicia Lai When I write an autobiography about death, it won’t be inspired by loss, not driven by a smoldering disappearance of something precious. Once, death decided it was an accident, then let the natural disasters, all bark and all bite, dance under and out and it was a lovely plan gone wrong. watch me burn. and watch as your world explodes before you, a haunting, devouring fire so different from the tame little flames you ran your hands through as a child. It started in Barcelona, the fault line beginning as a rickety old car low on gas and a boy who was eight minutes late, already, to his best friend’s wedding. The tornado, on the other hand, was a body under construction, her playing mermaids and the Susquehanna under-current, greedy thing, passing through. Once, the hurricane was a mistake Daddy made when cleaning his gun. For a day, it was your body’s message to you mistaken for one from you to your ex-boyfriend: I know you don’t care for me like before; you’re ruining me but I still insist. this is an arson that will leave you with singed fingers and black-coal scars and third-degree burns. You see, I’ve already gotten more than I deserve, although it is a common misconception that things cease to exist in the dark. I have a good imagination and every time I’m next to the curb I will smell smoke and when I pass the window I will see the bullet coming through and think about the times I did not win. Sign off a trade of chrysalis for cocoon, both antennaed and winged; the unexpected becomes a tragedy, to moth, not butterfly. We didn’t need to write an ending after that, because the sky is gray, mourners cry, a sad story will inevitably have something to lament about. The house stays silent in grief until new walls are built over again. There’s nothing new to say on us: we come, we go, it rains again. and still you won’t tear your eyes away, because there is a sort of beauty in bearing witness to something un-become. 1 When my name was somebody, my shadow had a precipitant throat and an agoraphobic-heel, and I was a stupid daredevil, the kind that jumped roofs because they told her no, poked crabs because she knew they might snap back. The hurricane soon found she liked when things under her went ablaze, things above her went underwater, the sound of destruction: plastic giving way, concrete giving way, body and bone, giving way. The quake placed herself smack-dab in the middle of lives. Midnight labor pains, a riot in NYC’s streets, graffiti on Barcelona’s walls. Drunken teenagers, the three-year-old’s masterpiece on the bedroom door, a failed marriage, a magician who can’t get the trick right. The tornado scraped his knees raw, landing on all fours, the bike a mangled skeleton at the bottom of Faith’s Hill. It was a kitchen blender gone hay-wire, and two hours scraping off tiles; then, the real thing over at Pearl Harbor. there will be only ashes afterwards. After July’s boycott, I grew tired of always playing the villain, the go-to to point a finger at. Tiger or house-finch, MVP or bench warmer, queen or not, this is a system of checks and balances, a scorecard special for karma. Not a destroyer, but a vessel for moth-metamorphosis. I learned to see, and to not; to let go, and not. There’s an elephant in the room but he hasn’t learned to forget. I know more than any hurricane or earthquake or any forest fire; his wisdom comes in knowing he’s replaceable, because you can’t be brave when you’re indestructible. 2