katrina

We've all seen the images of the destruction in the American gulf caused by Hurricane Katrina. And I do not desire to make light of the magnitude of nature's relentless pounding on the citizens and countryside.

But last night, Katrina brushed our city with her soft edges, hundreds and hundreds of miles from the centre of her story. I was awake most of the night, watching the bedroom curtains flap and flip, hearing their sliding and dancing, feeling the night-air cool as it carried a gentle spirit from Lake Ontario into my room and across this tired city.

My grandmother (the good one, as opposed to my father's mother, the evil one), used to call me Katrina -- and Katrinka, and Katykins. She was the only one who ever called me by these endearments, but when she did, the names always seemed more my true self than my simple, given moniker. They were full of possibilities and richness.

Last night, the gentle breezes were an embrace. They enveloped me in my grandmother's hug and hello.