I landed at two in the morning. The flight from my mother's nursing home was long and I didn't sleep.
Now the news says the hurricane is an hour away. The sky is green and thick.
I tape the windows with a roll I bought last year. The tape crumbles in my hands.
In my coat pocket, a disposable camera from my daughter's wedding. Three shots left.
I take one of the taped window. One of the empty chair by the radiator. One of the old photo of my mother.
The first drops hit the glass. I sit on the floor and wait.
Three pictures of the last quiet hour. I don't know what comes after, but I have these.