Hiding From Tornadoes

We used to hide
in the downstairs half-bath
and listen, as outside
tornadoes made their path
through neighborhoods and elms.

My mom would wake me,
softly, and carry me down the wooden stairs.
In our three acres of yard, we didn’t have one tree
near the house, but we still hid there,
away from the windows, all four of us.

Framed pictures would rattle against the walls,
and the sky would become a dense grey curtain.
My parents would venture into the hall,
to get a flashlight, or the radio, to be more certain
that we would be okay, there was no need to worry.

I felt slightly guilty, sitting barefoot on the cold tile,
because I found it exciting: to hear the sirens
warning people, to sit in the dark for awhile.

In school, we’d learned to cover our heads
with a book, in case debris began flying.
But it never did, and everyone would
return to class, pretending not to be disappointed.