Ephemera Rising

Last night, some friends walked over to LPSDO, joined by a hundred others who, like them, were trying to make sense of such devastation. A breeze picked up and, with it, a thousand fluttering scraps of human history took to the air. One wafted its way to my friend's feet, so she reached down and picked it up.

Most of a name and half a social-security number greeted her. And it made me wonder what other burnt offerings were making unexpected landings in new and exotic places.

Welcome to the strange domino-toppling world of disaster, a world filled with illegible notes to self, half-melted photos of strangers and smoke-infused bits of colorful cloth.

I first read about the word "ephemera" while preparing to write my master's-thesis essays. Defined as "collectible memorabilia not intended to last long," ephemera becomes surprisingly important in the midst of disaster. Oddly, there is even a genus of mayfly called "Ephemera," not surprising, considering the lanky-legged insect's short life span.

I actually witnessed such insect ephemera one warm summer night in upper Iowa, just miles from the birth place of the Mississippi. An evening of burgers and pool eventually ended, and we poured out onto the town square, where newborn Mayflies huddled around street lamps like Husker fans at the gates on opening day. It was impossible to avoid the mayflies, dozens of which stuck in our hair and shirts or flitted clumsily across our faces. I suppose they were horny as heck, driven by the desire to make more of themselves. By morning, the streets were thick with their carcasses.

"Carcass" seems an appropriate word at this time as well. It's impossible to drive by the LPSDO site without slowing down, your eyes morbidly drawn to the smoking, skeletal remains, your mind racing to memories of walking through that mazed building. It is impossible to be unmoved by what you see. And what you don't.

And now, like desperate mayflies, the ephemera of all those lives--past and present--floats upon the breeze, lodging on our clothing and in our minds. And we begrudgingly agree to become accidental keepers of these fragmented stories, hoping they can be told once again.