My mother and the tsunami

The great wave came and missed her, she had distance:

Saw it nearing, climbed, while people passed her,

High enough to safeguard her existence.

For days I fretted, then a text. Then, faster

others came, like news reports but shorter:

For her it was a small, intense disaster.

Monks provided shelter, bottled water.

Medicines that she’d rescued came in handy.

A couple passed by looking for their daughter.

Scavenged diesel fuelled a jeep to Kandy.

There she stayed, reviewing what she’d saved,

and sent my kids a card, “My room was sandy,

Monkeys played there, after the big wave

We had to climb and hide behind a wall

The hotel owner called it a close shave.”

Years later, when the impact of the Galle

event had waned, as far as we could tell,

some mealtime chatter led her to recall

the horror. Worst, she said, was how the swell

had stranded bodies like big fish; and that

the thing that wouldn’t leave her was the smell.

That silenced us for seconds, then we ate.