Little earthquakes
Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for a sign I really do live here. Twenty-two months later, I finally felt my first earthquake.
I was asleep when the bed moved side-to-side while the window rattled. It woke me up and I assumed it was the Mexicans renovating the apartment above me. Three seconds later, it was over and nobody was upstairs. It was the thrill you get on the Cyclone with your hands in the air. You run around wanting to ride it again. I dashed to my computer to see where the quake was. Novice that I am, I didn’t realize I’d feel a 5.6 located 116 miles southeast of me.
When I spoke to my brother to let him know I had my “first,” my nephews didn’t know what an earthquake was. I spoke with them and tried to explain. Five minutes later, Dave the three year-old wanted back on to ask, “Aunt Mahna, is the gwound still shaking?”
No, but I’m sure this won’t be my last one.