hugging the curve
"Brace yourself," the forecasters warned, eyeing the radar and revving up
their nomenclature, all of them angling to find new names for extremity and doom.
The disappearance of milk and bread from the store shelves, the anxious queue
at the gas station, the way we spoke to each other with so much urgency and an influx
of swear words, says something about their success. Everywhere, the sharp residue of
near-catastrophe, life squeaking by the slimmest of chances. Even now,
with that particular storm gone, we still hold rigidly on, our grip white-knuckled
as ever, as if we've forgotten the former glee that accompanied our older,
bumpier rides, when we leaned toward the centrifuge of speed, hugging the curve
of our own fear with such tenderness and fervor it made our skin blush.