Earthquakes

     The sky is clear today. It’s one of those perfect Oregon winter mornings, when Mother Nature scrapes away the cloud layer and the sky looks brand new again. As the train rolls by, the valley is a book I have read too many times.

     My heart, that which was born in this state and has been nurtured, broken, and repaired in this state has left me. Fled south, a monarch searching for mangrove trees.

     An earthquake has hit Chile. A massive, 8.8 earthquake. I have friends in Chile. In Valparaiso. In Viña del Mar. I have rubbed my hands along the spray paint covered walls of that beautiful beach town, hummed Neruda under my breath on the sands of Con Con , eaten Mote with indigenous street vendors in the back alleys of Santiago. While Argentina was allusive, a lover that haunted my dreams and stole away from me at night, Chile wrapped me in the mystery of the Andes and promised eternal love. Seduction came in the words of Isabel Allende, the rhythm of Chilean Castellano, and the knowledge that my time there was fleeting, a shooting star across the black South American sky.
And now…

     To imagine Santiago wounded. To imagine the Chileans, as the BBC described them, “sobbing in the streets”. What logic is there in earthquakes? What justice in 250,000 dead Haitians? 700 dead Chileans? Our world is turning on us, don’t you see?

     The Cascades stand rock solid outside of the glass. The sky is tranquil in the lazy morning sunlight and cows doze quietly in their pastures. I keep closing my eyes and hoping, praying, that when I open them I won’t be looking at trees barren from the harsh grasp of winter. Maybe if I wish hard enough, I can be back there. In the arms of Chile.