yesterday.

Nothing left of the trailer home

fiber glass splattered with blood.

Crumpled form, one hand still

holding tattered fabric

where the baby had grown.

Same day, new reality

shell of the trailer exploded.

No one noticed broken glass.

Didn't hear the gasp of a woman

walking the path after the storm

that spared them.

Back to the first timeline,

three decades later.

Graves left to crumble.

Bones nestled neatly

beneath dirt that needed them

more than the family

that never says their names.

All those years later,

In the realm of impossible

stories imprinted in time.

Another storm stirred.

She sent a text to her mother.

“Get to shelter, there's a warning.”

They were safe, but trembled anyway.

She still remembered dying

before she'd ever been born.