The Extinction Museum: Exhibit #11
(vial of rainwater c. 1986)
by Tina May Hall
A ring around the moon brings rain, Aunt Delia used to say. She was the crazy one, made
babies of large stones she collected from neighbors’ yards. A row of weighted cradles in her
parlor, rocking. When the ice melted, we all went to the new shore to take photos. Hot dog
vendors set off firecrackers, and ice cream dripped down our forearms. Aunt Delia carried a rusty
black umbrella, cast a shadow wherever she went. Standing at the edge of the waves, she called out
the names of dead cities. We threw shells to see who had to ride in the backseat with her. On the
day of the attacks, she ran into our kitchen holding her phone in the air, not realizing all of
our phones were broadcasting the same message. After years of no snow, winter returned. We
burrowed like stolen stones into the earth. And when that dead thing, the moon, swung high
overhead, we begged it to tell us what came next.