Tornado

By Taylor Mullin

I cried softly as my mother held my head to her chest as we sat together in the small bathtub in our basement, the tub full of dirt and shattered debris.
“Everything will be okay,” She murmured, gently petting my head with her hand. Tears streamed down my hot, flushed cheeks, dripping onto my muddy, torn jeans. I was thirteen years old, but I was blubbering like a small child.
I sobbed, looking around me at the demolished pieces of plywood beams and shattered glass. My bright green eyes were shadowed and gray by the tears, distress and the enraged storm clouds that stared down at us from the depressing gray sky.
Suddenly, I thought of my brother, Blake and my father, who I had seen leaving for a football game just before the tornado hit, and my heart suddenly sped up again.
“Mom, what about dad and Blake?”
She looked at me, tears now welling up. She quickly averted her usually warm, brown eyes and shrouded her face with her long wavy red hair. She didn't need to speak a word, for her actions spoke the truth loud and clear. Blake and my father had gone to the football game, and the tornado had taken them.
I let this sink in, and allowed myself to be engulfed in my sadness, smothering in it. I was too sad to cry, so the endless down-pour acted as my tears.
My mother and I slowly stood up, my legs and arms numb and stiff from sitting in the tub and gripping the metal handrail. We climbed out of the square hole that was once our basement, and as I knelt on the ground, looking out at the flattened mess that was Topeka, I saw them, my father and Blake, limping toward us.