Not Easily Forgotten

We were still several hundred miles from the coast when we began seeing the tell-tell signs of Katrina's fury, a battered sign here, a missing shingle there. With each passing mile as we approached our destination, the scene became increasingly bleak; mile after mile of endless destruction mirroring the battered souls that sought refuge from the storm.
There are moments in time when reality bursts upon you with such ferocity that you are changed forever. On Saturday, September 10, I experienced such a moment when I was awakened from a dreamy sleeplike state, induced by a constant barrage of unimaginable images of destruction, so widespread that my mind became numb to the never ending sea of battered lives. Slowly at first, the images came, as we made our way from Northwest Mississippi, south to Gulfport, then west on I-10 to Waveland, crossing Hwy 90 to Gladstone Street and finally to the small one-story house with the green roof, where we went about the task of collecting what remained of our loved-ones treasures. We gathered pictures taken over several lifetimes, furniture that Grandpa made, wood carvings that spent hours being fashioned on the craftsman's table, keepsakes and mementos, things of value because of time not money spent. And when the last strap was being tightened on the trailer, I realized that the time spent with my family in this labor of love was oh so much more valuable than the priceless treasures we collected. These irreplaceable reminders of life's most precious moments became for me symbols of life's most enduring theme; love. Good enough, lesson learned, or so I thought. One last time before we leave, I'll survey the damage done to this small house with the green roof. As I walk around the southern end of the house, I notice something brightly white among the grey fence slats and brown pine needles. Hurriedly now I move forward. What could this be that stands out so starkly against the brokenness? Anguish now washes over me, as I realize that I am seeing what I hoped to never see. It is a tiny white shoe, washed undoubtedly by the churning waters and the pounding rain. A small white sneaker with a velcro strap, small enough for maybe a four year old. A four year old... my son is four years old. My heart breaks as I wonder how many times this small white sneaker with a velcro strap was slipped onto a little four-year old foot. Sometimes in a hurry, "come here and put this shoe on, we're going to be late." Or maybe playfully, "boy, that's not a foot." How many mornings do you think were spent looking for this little white sneaker with a velcro strap. "Here it is. I found it under the bed."...

Now I've found it,
and I wish I could slip it,
on the little foot that lost it.