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9 Sec ago - The roar of the twister siren was woven into the fabric of my life, a mournful song that played out against the backdrop of the canning factory. My name's Martha, and for 30 years, I’ve worked this line, packing peaches, green beans, whatever the Oklahoma earth coughs up. Thirty years of sticky sweet smells mingling with the metallic tang of fear.

We lost my daddy to a twister when I was ten. He was out in the fields, stubborn as a mule, refusing to leave his crop. Mama always said he thought he could outsmart the wind. He couldn't. Found him a mile away, tangled in barbed wire, his face peaceful like he was just sleeping. The wind stole him gentler than it took others. Mrs. Henderson down the road? Found her shoes three counties over.

The factory whistle became our family’s alarm clock, our dinner bell, our lullaby. It told us when to work, when to eat, and when to run. I met my husband, Earl, here, stacking crates of tomatoes. He had kind eyes and hands rough from the fields, just like my daddy. We built a little life, brick by brick, hoping it could withstand the storms. We even named our daughter, Dorothy, after that girl in the movie, the one who got swept away but found her way back home. We prayed our Dorothy would never have to test that kind of fate.

But fate, she’s a cruel mistress in this part of the country. Earl, he was a volunteer fireman, always running towards danger instead of away from it. Ten years ago, a twister ripped through Harmony Creek, just a speck on the map, but our whole world. He went out with the siren, like he always did, a kiss on my cheek, a promise to be back for supper. Supper got cold. The siren wailed again, a mournful cry for the lost. They found his helmet, crushed like a tin can, next to a splintered oak. No body. Just the helmet. Dorothy was only twelve.

Now, Dorothy’s grown, moved to Tulsa, chasing a life free of sirens and cellars. Says she can't stand the constant waiting, the fear clinging to the air like humidity. I understand. But me, I'm rooted here, same as those peach trees that get ripped from the earth and tossed like toys. This factory, it’s more than just bricks and mortar; it’s the only constant I’ve got left. It’s the smell of peaches and the rhythmic clang of the machinery. It’s the faces of the women I've worked alongside for years, faces etched with the same worry lines as mine.

Every time that siren screams, I see Daddy’s face, Earl’s smile. I feel Dorothy’s small hand gripping mine as we huddled in the cellar, praying the wind wouldn't take us too. I'm still here, packing peaches, listening to the wind howl, waiting for the next storm. Waiting for the day it finally takes me too, and maybe, just maybe, reunites me with the pieces of my heart the wind scattered across the Oklahoma plains.






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