Читать книгу Guabancex - Celia A Sorhaindo - Страница 8

[ 3 ] After the hurricane, my grandmother, in her basement storeroom, hunkered down, knelt her knees raw with prayer the whole long long lashing tail of night, then ascended slippery stairs hoping by holy intervention her home had been saved. She stared from room to room, swaying like a punched drunk spirit, mouth and eyes wide black holes of disbelief, words gone as wounds appeared. She walked on water, treading over eighty years of floating debris, then could do no more than silently thank her saviour over and over for sparing her life. After the hurricane, after Mass, tales of rampant looting circled among them like hungry dogs; after the turned-inside-out but still well clothed congregation, still silent, had shared signs of peace. No one appeared to conjure and divide loaves and fishes between some people; divided by good and bad luck or circumstance; divided by ability or will to pad and prepare, In The Air