The following four are from last week.
This one is my very favorite!

THE EYE OF THE STORM

It’s quiet now. The first salvo has passed us by and those of us who survived it are picking ourselves up, brushing ineffectively at the embedded grit, and checking for missing digits. “Bobbie, is there time, do you think, to make it to the hardware store?” Earl asks me this question as though he expects a reasonable answer.

I look into his eyes and see the shock that is pounding through my own body mirrored there. Earl is my older brother by four years and a Vietnam Vet. “No, buddy,” I say. I put my hand on his left shoulder and squeeze. I’d like to hug him desperately, cling to him like a limpet to a rock, but he will not suffer a man’s hug. Not even mine.

I look beyond him to the rubble where our houses used to stand side by side, and am again thankful that Joyce and Rhonda and the kids are all in California at Mom’s house. Not because of any foresight on anybodies part, but just because our wives had agreed that the kids needed to get to know Mom better. And so they had packed up and flown off into the gray Gulf skies two weeks before we even had a rumor of the storm.

Thank God for that, thank God.

I must be crying now because Earl is patting my back rhythmically like he used to do when we were kids. “S’okay Bobbie, s’okay,” he’s saying.

The wind is picking up and I can see people straightening up from sifting their fingers through the debris. Mr. Winton has found something and handed it to his wife. She clutches the large black book to her breasts as though it will save her. Who knows? Maybe it will.

We’re all facing south now; we survivors, we refugees, watching the second act of the storm roll in.

Earl takes my hand and leads me over to the concrete steps of my house that used to go up onto my porch. “Let’s sit here, Bobbie,” he says. “We got a great view.” And just before the leading edge hits us he wraps his arms around my chest and hangs on with all his might.