August 17, 2009. A short service of remembrance was held at a cemetery on the Mississippi Gulf Coast for Faith, Hope, and Charity, three unidentified and unclaimed women killed by Hurricane Camille forty years ago.

On July 17, 1969 Camille, a category five hurricane, crashed ashore close to midnight near Bay St. Louis. Hundreds of people were washed out to sea, some bodies never found or accounted for--but the most poignant of the unclaimed were Faith Hope and Charity, names given to the bodies of these women known but to God. Surely somewhere out there in the world there were families wondering where their daughters or sisters or cousins were. How can a human being disappear from life and never be missed?

Then here comes Hurricane Katrina on August 29, 2005, with the estimated destructive force of of ten or more atomic bombs. Through the years we went through hurricanes every year, some mild, some pretty bad but people got lax and Katrina sucker punched us. It left me scarred for life, not physically but psychically. It destroyed my relationship with my daughters--we're still mending fences. I am estranged from my favorite sister. It cracked many personal relationships.

And since Katrina I have phobias--I sleep with the lights on. I have a fear of running out of water. I keep stacks of bottled water now. When I hear any mention of hurricanes, no matter how far away, my bowels turn to jelly. I keep some little white pills to calm my nerves if I need one. In four years I've only taken two--I feel silly to take one, so I tough it out instead. I hate my daughter's husband because the son of a bitch said "Get over it." You never get over it, you learn to incorporate what happened into your life and go on. There's no other way.

Late August, here in the prime of hurricane season, the air has a certain smell, like the sea. The sky is a pale washed out blue, the fall crickets in the broom sedge keep a steady drone that alerts the primitive nerves in your brain to be aware, be aware. What is here today can be changed irrevocably in the span of a day. Tomorrow is the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. I may have to take one of those little white pills.

susil