There are many things I could write about the tornado- about the afternoon I was driving home on the interstate from Hull-Jackson Montessori, admonished as I left the school by the teachers to be careful with my charges- my two kids, then ages 4 & 6, and the children of folks down Eastland Avenue, ages 3 & 5. Hail was falling. I now am aware that hail often precedes tornadoes, but back then was oblivious. About the gray-green mass I saw later, between us in the car and downtown, as we were exiting the highway. About huddling underneath the Spring Street Bridge at the beginning of Ellington Parkway, turning off the kids' story tape, and on the radio, and hearing the announcer warn that cars were NOT the place to stay in the event of a tornado. About swearing that I would never take 4 children out of that car, no matter what. About pulling so hard on the emergency brake, as we held our breath under that bridge, that I felt my surge of adrenaline would force me to pull the handle straight out of its socket so hard it would fly out the back window and into windy space.

About my friend Barbara Brown's husband Joe Goller, who ran for shelter in his old Joe's Diner and later walked out of the freezer to see the roof of the place had peeled off. About the house, on Gartland, of my friends Bobby Mahoney and Mary Catherine Dean being torn asunder, and the two of them being forced to live with their four young children somewhere else for months before they could come back.

About two houses across Eastland Avenue from ours, being pulled apart as if made of paper. Minutes after the tornado's worst assault, I could look across the street and see into our neighbor's living room. The front wall of that house had flown to parts elsewhere. The red roof of the other house, an historic farmhouse, was peeled back like the top of a sardine can.

I could write about the fact that in spite of all this misery and destruction, our house sustained relatively minor damage. Gutters down, some broken windows, power out for more than a week. Eight mature trees gone forever (yes, we had some angels from Re-Leaf come by that fall and plant trees that just now are beginning to offer a bit of respite from that hot, humid Nashville summer heat). But we were able to rely on my husband's family living across town, where I watched in awe as folks bought flats of spring flowers, and hair barrettes at K-Mart. And I would drive home from work to check on our house and have lunch, courtesy of the Salvation Army canteen parked in the lot at Eastwood Christian Church.

And awful thngs happened. And wonderful things happened. Strangers with chainsaws and huge trucks and loving hearts and strong arms came to help us clean up. My lovely friends who live around me joined hands. They made dinner together and heaved tree branches together. And lit candles, and were humbled at the tremendous, awesome power that nature had exacted on East Nashville. And downtown. And West Nashville. And Centennial Park.

And awful things happened. And this is where I stop, and I look. And I cannot help but think. Of the young man. The Vanderbilt student. The one of whom I have often thought, and wondered. The young man I heard, shortly after the tornado struck our neighborhood, had been running for shelter and pinned by a tree in Centennial Park that the horrid winds had toppled. I worried about him over the days afterwards. Our kids had a soccer game, and I distinctly remember talking to another mom at the game, and informing her that the student had died, and her silence. And then, her shoulders shaking, heaving. And the two of us standing arm-in-arm, the kids wildy running by, and the whistles blowing and the world plodding and rolling relentlessly ever-forward, pooh-poohing the recent crimes committed.

And it has taken me ten long years to look up his name on the internet. I did it two nights ago. His name is Kevin Longinotti. The press release from Vanderbilt says that he was 22 years old, from Memphis, and that he died at approximately 12:30 a.m. at Vanderbilt University Medical Center on the morning of May 4, 1998. He died just two days before he was to have graduated and to have been commissioned as an Army officer.

According to the release, Kevin fought for 17 days, and survived an ordeal that many - who were not as strong and healthy as he- would not have. Kevin was in Centennial Park celebrating the end of the academic year, and was struck as he scrambled for shelter from the twister.

Kevin, it is of you I think as this ten-year anniversary of the terrible tornado approaches. Yes, I think of all that I went through, and the trials so many others endured. But, all things considered - the destruction of property, the longing for the fabulous shade of those old, old trees lining our East Nashville streets- all this pales in comparison to the loss of you. I think of the man, the leader, the individual, the officer, the father? that you might have become. And I shake my fist at the sky, and at fate, and at the vagaries of nature's wrath. I think of my own children, and how I might not be able to go on if they were taken by such a freak accident. And I had to write. I had to write because I remember you. And I feel it's essential to keep your memory alive, as I and many others commemorate the occasion of such a momentous event in our lives.

From the press release:

"Kevin was an extraordinary young man. He was one of our best and brightest students. he was also a compassionate person who felt blessed by his talents and freely shared his good fortune with others," Joe B. Wyatt said this morning.

To Kevin and your family, this message is for you.