Three years ago, during the election, a mob stormed the Hotel Montana, and, overcome by the beauty they found there, stayed to play. My sister wrote this:
Hotel Montana, by Ruth Hersey
And when we got in
You would hardly believe how beautiful it was.
There was a pool
Like the ocean but clean,
Blue like a huge Culligan bottle
How many buckets were carried on how many heads to fill that pool?
Maybe the angels did it.
And then I jumped in
And the water frothed with joy as we splashed it on each other
And some people reclined on heavenly deck chairs
And some explored the many mansions.
Today, the Hotel Montana is in ruins, as a result of yesterday’s earthquake.
Ruth was, I think, going to re-post the entire poem this week. I retrieved it from backups of an old website she posted it on several years ago, since that was her only copy of it. But this week she’s living in a soccer field, and doesn’t have electricity or internet, so it may be a while before you get to read the whole thing.