Patients

98 percent wiped out by churning surges of salt water and wind on heavy rotation, thrown up. Months later, an understated breeze whisks white sand over a two-lane highway like ripples formed on the ocean bed. Do not walk around barefoot. It’s the first grouping of beach houses set on stilts after the alleyway of coastal pines create a vast buffer between Tyndall and Mexico Beach. At dusk, the sky is lightly airbrushed pink, purple and blue. Didn’t think this would ever happen as main cabins are leaning into one another with exposed wounds: dark views into broken windows, exposed plywood and a claim number for the temporary living space. Homes of the brave held the line although not left unscathed. Tyvek underlayment and wraps ripped away litters ditches and monster cleanup piles. Fewer are around the state of emergency so there’s a stillness on the ground like inside the eye, looking around. Setting foot on the aftermath where the path of the storm laid seems chaotic, but the patient knows it’s surgical. Nobody likes an operation on new war wounds. For a time left wide open until long time affections are amputated. The losses are calculated by actuaries and contractors into transactions. Actionable distractions by fraudulent cranes who swing dance with owners until they rollover. Patients need each other to form a community of the great physician where they snuggle together through the struggle and tug of war.