Before the storms, the ground was red,covered by the soil blown from foot-wornfootball fields denuded of all grass.Red, too, were the pavements in frontof the old shops, the abandonedoffices, the empty schools, the hollowechoing corridors of the Old City Hall.Before the storms, before the invasionof the righteous militias, beforethe executions against the limestone wallsin the alleyways, the city breathedits own sweet liveliness,and even the desperate knew howto sing. Everyone could read the skies,knew to look between the twomountain peaks to find the makingof storms — even a child could timethe deluge to the second, its applauseshimmering across the zinc roofs.But on the morning of the great storm,the mountains vanished and blacknessswallowed the circle of hills.The rain consumed the peopleand left them with empty streets, mud-stainedwalls, and roads black with flooding.There are no ghosts here. They drained awaywith the ebbing waters. What is leftis the soft wind off the river and the humthat comes with the loss of all memory.