Missing When she first went missing, they tried not to be too concerned. She often went off on her own, but a woman her age and in her condition, so they started searching. On the evening news they mentioned her, her age, her confused condition, and that family, some friends, and the police were searching for her. The next day the search was joined by volunteers and eventually by dogs and drones. The news showed a picture of her walking along a road, a stray camera caught the picture, a fleeting image that her friends said looked like her, so determined, so deliberate, walking faster than she should heading in the wrong direction. When they finally found her, she was in a wooded area near her home. Dead a day in an area they searched several times. Perhaps she never went any further, or perhaps she was on her way back home, went for a walk, went for a visit and died on her way back to where they all thought she should be. Tornado This isn’t The Wizard of Oz this time not Hollywood special effects Dorothy and Toto and all that. This is the real thing tearing through real lives homes, buildings, trees uprooted cars lifted and thrown trucks on their sides people dead, people missing. We get to watch this on TV safe and snug hundreds of miles away from it all, trying to imagine ourselves in it our homes pulled apart our lives torn apart. But we know that this is what happens to others vaguely familiar people whose lives get summarized like this a few minutes of the evening news and promises of aid. The ones they interview seem to know the roles they play now – survivors who just want to start again, give it another try as if they expected the whole thing. Chekovian I feel like a character from a Chekov short story an elderly Russian peasant out to buy a present for his love. A bracelet he decides, after seeing them on so many women’s wrists and wanting his love to feel the way women seemed to feel with flash of light when they moved their arms move their wrists, the beauty that bracelets bring. And there he is/I am in the jewelry shop, at last after hours of planning and guessing. There I am/ we are leaning on a jewelry display, trying not to look so out of place, just as if we know what we are doing. The jewelry saleslady sees us there the Russian peasant dressed as me, says something to the person next to her. They both chuckle a bit and then she starts over. The non-Chekovian part of me, who is always on alert, pulls out his credit card and smiles knowing that he will be treated well.