The Fast Fall: A Child’s Lament

I cannot tell this quake as myself. So I tell it through the eyes of a ten-year-old, caught in the fast fall of Turkey’s shaking.

I give this as lament. I give this as hope in destruction.

It began with the shaking,

a shock in the near night.

Then the low rumble,

the quaking like waves.

The frames above the door rattled —

family pictures shaking on the

blue, faded wall.

The table with plants jittered,

like a bug with cut wings

still trying to fly.

Cracks spread in the plaster.

Daddy in his pajamas waved us close.

We huddled under the doorway,

the door gone, the house trembling.

Momma, Daddy, little sister —

we held on tight.

Shaking, whispering prayers.

I was so afraid.

The cracks grew wider.

Plaster fell like rain.

Dust filled the air,

Momma coughed and cried.

The floor groaned and heaved.

Then a thunder crack —

the house broke.

A fast fall.

Darkness.

Then stillness.

Then something there.

Arms around me.

I was known.

Join with me in a prayer for the survivors.