There was no color

Driving down the hill from my apartment and the buses still run. They're

moving more and more people in and out of the YMCA as young people walk to the Tom Thumb or gas station for their parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters or friends for cigarettes, snacks or medicine. The parking lot is blocked off by a cop car at each entrance and the line of six blue "Port-a-Johns." Early Saturday morning they unloaded the largest group since they began accepting people here. People walked off the buses and looked like they were seeing the sun for the first time or without it being filtered by the charcoal stick-on tints on all the bus windows. Drivers were the last off and the last to receive bedding on the floor next to the sea of blankets and cots and stacked pillows for anyone who had been injured. A week old beard hung off an old man's face as he waited to have his bandages replaced.

People have been complaining that so many of them will seek to stay in this

area and cause problems as employers will have pity on them as their homes are still submerged. They're afraid for their jobs. They want to contribute money to disaster relief funds so these people can go back with a new home and live and work there, but it doesn't matter. Fear from the community doesn't even strike those who are being cared for by way of government subsidies and donations from those who watch far too much TV. They haven’t realized yet that they’re alive, that they survived. Nervous, confused energy powers the YMCA down my street.