On the Recurrence of Storms

It’s a rainy day.

(That’s probably the understatement of the year.)

Sitting here in the studio office, insulated from the watery world outside by five floors and two panes of glass, it looks like just another blustery day. The howling of the wind is muted, and so is the lashing of the rain.

Which is exactly what it was like for me nearly three years ago when Ondoy struck. I was in my fifth floor apartment (whose balcony I can see directly from where I’m sitting in my office right now), reading in bed, when I got a call from the security guard stationed in the lobby that my car was beginning to float away.

(Things you don’t like hearing early in the morning. Another understatement.)

Now, like then, the extent of my misfortunes is vastly eclipsed by those of others. The only casualty from the 2009 disaster was my car (which has never fully recovered despite various repairs); the only casualty from this current disaster is a studio emptied of its regular clientele.

Friends and acquaintances, on the other hand, lost homes and possessions in 2009—and risk losing the same this 2012.

Here’s hoping that history doesn’t repeat itself.

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