Avalanche

In my hometown, an avalanche ran over an empty shack, crossed the highway, crushed the schoolhouse. The children were all home eating boiled peas, scratching themselves, wanting to go outside in the snow once more before bedtime. That evening’s event ended schooling in the town. Children ever since have traveled twelve miles to go learn in the next town.

Cameras remembered the sight of snow versus building. People would recall the sound without describing it. They couldn't go around talking about how loud snow could be—how long the sound lasted, how it was sustained, patient, and terrible. No, better to say, “That was really something, that was.”

So far, all descendants of the avalanche have stayed on the mountain, melted, slipped into the river, and traveled toward San Francisco—there to continue their education in the Bay.