Photo Story: Just a Piece of Junk
There’s a tornado knocking on my door. It’s been knocking since two a.m. Since my father drove away in his car. Since the wind got lost in his voice. Since my mother’s door slammed and shook the house first. It was my father who taught me that hot air rises and cold air sinks. That the invisible can become violent. When the tornado finally leaves, I take a hammer from his bedside table drawer, the one filled with the things he left behind. I smash a hole in the ceiling. Watch the roof blow away. Breathe in the quiet.
Photographer: Liz West
I really love the ending. A final let go—like death. Like a realization. A subtle epiphany.