Old Fort, North Carolina after Helene

Nobody asked you to come back.
You told yourself it was just to see the damage.
Just to see what would finally break.

The jukebox is still there—half-buried in silt behind the diner.
The glass is splintered, and when you trace the web,
your finger pulls back grit and a smear of blood.
She laughed at something you said, and you pretended not to notice.

You think about touching it. You don’t.
You think about “Fingertips,” the little Motown scream.
Whose music gets to stay? The song still plays in your head.
It tastes like the metal of the gas station pump on your tongue.

The booth is gone. The window is gone.
You don’t remember the words.
You remember the way she mouthed them
like a secret she didn’t want to keep.

You meet the criteria. You fail the criteria.
The FEMA trailer hums in the parking lot.
You think it’s quieter than it should be, but it’s only
the sound of water trying to settle.
You think it’s temporary. You think it’s permanent. You fail to be rescued.

The church is still standing. You step inside. The pews are damp.
The hymnals are gone. You remember her kneeling once, not praying—
just tying her shoe, the single, tight muscle in her calf.
You remember the way she looked up like she’d been caught, ready for the fine.
You were fine.

You don’t know what you were hoping to find.
You don’t know what you found. You pass your old house.
The porch is gone. The upstairs light is on, humming with borrowed current.
You tell yourself it’s a generator. You tell yourself it’s a loan.
You tell yourself she might be inside.
You tell yourself she isn’t. She drove north before the mandatory evacuation.
You tell yourself she left a letter taped to the window:
“I am the only thing you could not salvage.”

Someone left a chair in the middle of the road.
You sit. You don’t sit. You think about leaving.
You think about the way she said:
“You never stay long enough to see the ending. You don’t have to.”

The jukebox is still there. You circle back.
You don’t mean to. You do. You don’t press play.
The mechanism is rusted shut.

Main Street ends where the river started. The bridge is gone.
The sign is gone. You don’t cross. You cross.
The silt is deep, slick as oil. You disappear. You don’t disappear.
You stand in the current, your grey boots dissolve.
The song is still playing. You remember the song.

– Phillip Shabazz