March 4, 2010

The ground, and everything in it, trembles.
My grandmother’s house shakes in its foundation.
Even our yard is shaking.
The thin, green blades of grass I hate to cut, and running alongside the house, the freshly weeded flower bed shake and quiver, as well.
Losing my balance from the force, I fall, trembling and scared, to my knees.
The ground is hard, solid, and loud.
In amazement, I listen to it as it bellows out a loud roar, like an angry elephant in the Tarzan movies I love to watch.
The solid earth beneath me is transformed into a giant bowl of green and purple brown Jello, as if the whole neighborhood is being drawn into my mother’s giant mixing bowl, which is normally filled with cake batter and chocolate icing.
The bottomless, deep, muddy, purple brown Jello turns itself inside out and prepares to swallow me whole.
The angry elephant opens its loud, wide mouth, snarling me with its large, sharp tusks, chews me up, and indignantly spits me back out through its long snout.
I am transfixed in fear.
And then all is quiet. Great Mother Earth, apparently no longer angry, is calm.
I catch my breath.
Half knowingly, in my youthful ignorance, I ask myself, “Was that an earthquake?
Triumphant, I stand and brace myself for the aftershocks.


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