Homesick, 365
As I board the train back to Harrisburg,
I feel a difference in my lungs.
A simpler way to breathe.
Less labored.
My sore throat, improved.
My unbearable migraine, now a tolerable headache.
My nausea reduced,
I had some fruit for breakfast.
My anxiety now consisting,
mainly of exhaustion.
Physical and mental.
Trepidation of this 6-hour train ride,
alone in my thoughts.
One may think my third trip would be easier,
That I’d know what to expect.
But East Palestine, Ohio is ever-changing,
and in the most heart-wrenching of ways.
I wonder to myself how unfathomable it is for people to stay somewhere,
so toxic and harmful.
But I then acknowledge the entitlement I must have to think that way.
Most people don’t have the means to simply pick up and move, regardless how dire the alternative.
And understandably, some residents don’t want to leave.
Their home, family, and community for generations,
Now filled with sludge in the creek, inedible crops and grey air.
Many of us utter trite sentiments such as “things” are not important,
Yet when those “things” are all abruptly and forcibly stripped away,
one can beg to differ.
The clay handprint Christmas ornament your daughter made so many years ago,
Now too contaminated to keep.
Your Granddaddy’s favorite suit you kept in his memory,
No washing or dry-cleaning can restore.
The mom taking others’ toys left curbside with Sunday’s garbage,
Because they are cleaner than those in her home.
The mom who told me she only wants two things promised to her:
Healthcare for life for her 5-year-old son,
And her burial expenses paid.
Some residents, requesting no-interest loans,
Mere breadcrumbs, still too much to ask,
Relocation now, while praying their lawsuits reimburse them later.
The onus still placed on those victimized.
The United States of America,
The richest country in the world.
Superseded by a multi-billion-dollar corporation,
paying $25 million for a park.
An Easter egg hunt.
A carnival.
A 4th of July celebration.
All on contaminated ground.
Enough money spent on public relations to buy each affected home in East Palestine.
Alas, it would be bad for optics if they spent that money justly.
Nose bleeds,
Chemical burns,
Nodules on lungs,
Just a few of the gifts given to them in a big, translucent, vinyl chloride bow.
Residents abandoned and lied to by those paid to represent them,
Many tirelessly thrust into becoming organizers and their own advocates,
Knowing help is not on the way.
365 days in, no healthcare.
365 days in, no testing provided.
365 days in, no buyouts.
365 days in, no semblance of compensation.
365 days in, a continued need of bottled water,
365 days in, no certainties, aside from having more questions than answers.
Saturday, February 3, 2024,
the one year anniversary of the toxic train derailment.
Community events held throughout the day.
The pain and sadness, palpable.
Filling every room.
Every hallway
Every corner.
During a presentation, a clip played of the
controlled burn,
A voice on the video:
“3…2….1”
EXPLOSION!
An audible scream, commotion,
and sobbing around me.
I jumped over a seat to embrace a resident.
We held each other as tears furiously dropped down our cheeks.
365 days in, PTSD, ringing with permanency.
367 days ago.
That fateful day which changed so much, for so many.
The day I began reporting on a toxic train derailment.
An environmental disaster.
Capitalism, epitomized.
Not long after,
From journalist to family.
I am forever changed.