blue hill reservation, MA midnight
|pen||The rumbling grew, and a flash of
light struck my eyes, almost blinding them for several seconds...
What was going on? In darkness again, I blinked my eyes, trying to get my bearings; I stood up on my sleeping bag. Something was wrong, very wrong. I looked down at Boston, and even then I knew there was trouble. There were no lights on in the Hub, the City on Massachusetts Bay. And hanging above, barely reflected in the darkness, was a mushroom cloud, looming over everything, a harbinger of death.
I stared at it for some time, unknowning, in shock. What do I do? What can I do?
I got out my weather radio, shivering as the cold rush of air hits me. A bomb...a nuclear bomb? The radio...it's a little staticy, but I can hear it quite well...the President is speaking...on the weather radio. I begin to cry; it only begins to settle on me, the magnitude of what I just saw. I turn behind me: the antenna for the weather station is on Blue Hill, it's still going. It may be the only hope.
Taking a flashlight out, I take my notebook out, and begin to write. Better now than never.
|11:50pm||11:55pm||midnight||"on and on, the rain would sing: how fragile we are."|