October Whirlwind // Isabella Zarmakoupis ‘21

October Whirlwind

Isabella Zarmakoupis ‘21

Step— “ouch!”—step— “mmh.” Lugging my bulky backpack and my wafer-thin patience, I muffle the pangs shooting up my right foot as I heavily climb those concrete stairs to the place I loathe calling home: the Marriott Residence Inn. Step— “mmh”—step— “ahh!” Like a singular pearl within a clam, hidden beneath the sand of the deepest ocean waters, that shard of window glass from my parents’ bedroom remains lodged in my right sole beneath that layer of skin often threatened by a nail technician’s rugged ocean sponge. This stubborn shard is transfixed in my foot despite multiple attempts at removal, but it serves as a memory of that night… a cool October night forever transfixed in my head when Mother Earth would blow her catastrophic breath through the neighborhoods of North Dallas.

The month of October used to usher in costume parties, the smell of the backyard grill, and of course, my younger sister Audrey’s birthday, but Audrey and I now joke that the universe despises her growing up— the result being a cursed October. In fact, just a few years prior to the tornado, on the night of her birthday, I plummeted from the uneven bars at gymnastics on the last skill of my last bar routine, dismantling both my elbow and Audrey’s idea of a “fun” birthday celebration. This same night a year later, someone t-boned and totaled my mother’s almost-payed-off Volvo. So this past October, as we neared the end of a smooth month in which Audrey’s fourteenth birthday celebration was pleasurable and without injury, Audrey and I reevaluated our October conspiracy. Could the universe be coming around to accept her inevitable aging? It seemed this way until the evening of October 20, 2019.

This evening began as any other Sunday in my household—my father grooming the yard, my mother sautéing onions in the kitchen, and my sister and I individually completing school assignments amongst other distractions. I moved between taking derivatives and checking my Instagram feed which seemed a never-ending trail of pictures from the homecoming dance last night. My father had retired to the couch and the Cowboys game when he received a text from his manager alerting him of dangerous weather. Flipping to channel eight, Pete Delkus warned, “Seek

Flipping to channel eight, Pete Delkus warned, “Seek shelter if you reside between Royal Lane and Highway Seventy-Five.”

shelter if you reside between Royal Lane and Highway Seventy-Five.” Of course at the onset of the sirens, Audrey, who can hear a fairy’s flutter from a mile away, was running circles around the kitchen island—the place at which I was frantically finishing my math assignment. Gathering the dogs, my parents concluded that the safest room was the hallway bathroom where we sat and waited…and sat and waited…and sat and waited wondering when the notification would alert us that it was safe to retreat to our respective beds. Like devilish whispers outside the gates of hell, the winds began, quickly escalating into the sound of shattering glass. My dad leaned against that bathroom door as I hugged both quivering dogs, and for the first time in my life, I heard my father outwardly pray: “Our father, who art in Heaven… Help me hold the door!” Despite sitting inches away from each of my loved ones, I had never felt so alone; I felt like a diver descending an oceanic black hole too quickly—the pressure in my ears intensifying with every second. Every object around me seemed to be alive—teeming with frantic movement— but there I sat paralyzed with fear. Like blood oozing from a doorframe in a haunted house, insulation crept through that small crack between the door and the floor. Even the toilet growled, as its water drained—a result of the intense pressure. But, within a matter of eight minutes, the demons had returned to their home; the gates of hell had been closed and bolted; it was all over…just like that. Parts of the house were unrecognizable. I could not see the grass. There were firemen tending the flames from the Jewish Community Center across the street. Yet amongst the chaos, I had never felt so grateful for my breath and the lives of those around me.

The following day, as I threw my dearest clothing items into a suitcase for the next week, I stepped in a miniscule shard of glass in my parents’ bedroom. Although the shard seldomly implores my attention, when it does, I am reminded of how fortunate my family is to have home insurance; to have friends who sacrificed something of themselves to help us; to merely fix damaged pieces of our home unlike our neighbors whose homes were annihilated; and ultimately to have our individual lives and each other.

My dad leaned against that bathroom door as I hugged both quivering dogs, and for the first time in my life, I heard my father outwardly pray: “Our father, who art in Heaven… Help me hold the door!”