[ WP ] A terrorist act during the 40-50 's results in the creation of color . Describe the before , the during , and the after of this event .

I loved the smell of Pa after a long day in the field, a salty beef odor distinctly his, mixed with the lemon scented soap Ma used to wash our clothes. He always smiled in those days, a satisfied exhausted grin stretched from ear to ear, a contented happiness that I would miss in the years to come. 
 
 
 
 I always used to wait for him to come in from the fields, excited when I heard the thud of his boots on the porch. I would sit beside him as he washed for dinner, watch as he rinsed clean of the moist grey soil whistling tunelessly between his front teeth. Every day when he finished he would tussle my hair and hoist me up into his arms where I would rest my head on his shoulder and breathe in that smell. The scent of those happy easy times. 
 
 
 
 I can still remember when the worry started in Pa ’ s face. I was playing just off the porch, plucking at those pretty white crooked flowers that Ma always loved. Piling them up in the multi-hued grey of the dirt ready to be strung into chains to be hung around my neck. Pa was working on his squeaky old truck, arms and face smudged with black oil as he fiddled under the hood. I had watched with gaping mouth when the Smith ’ s truck had come down the winding dirt lane to our farm. The whole Smith clan peering out from around their piled up possessions, stacked high to the pale sky. Seemed like everything they owned was on that truck, chair and table and dresser and drawer tied together into a jumbled maze of wicker and wood. 
 
 
 
 Pa and Mr Smith had spoken for a while, heads bowed close together in solemn congress, hushed and stern dispute. Pa shook his head several times, disagreeing or refusing with Mr Smith and his quiet calm implorations. After a time they stopped and shook hands with a rough tight grip, fiercely squeezing at each other ’ s work scarred hand. Finally with a clap on Pa ’ s shoulder Mr Smith had climbed back in his truck and then wheeled it around heading away from our farm. Pa stood there for a while, watching them rattle down our rutted road fading off into the distant grey. 
 
 
 
 I woke that night to Ma and Pa in muttered argument, hissed words just loud enough to disturb my sleep. I had lay in my bed, rough blanket pulled to my chin bathed in the silver of the moon peeking through my window. Lay and listened as Ma begged at Pa in a pleading tone. Pa had finally spoke loud in the still quiet of the night, Enough. After that I heard no more, finally drifting off into uneasy sleep. 
 
 
 
 It was weeks before we saw the first roiling cloud. A dark angry looking puff of black streaked with glints of silvery light. It dragged itself over the horizon and loomed there almost snarling at us as it tossed and turned unsteadily in the hot wind. Pa spent the day sealing the windows and packing everything away under tied down tarps. Frenetically moving from task to task, one eye on what he was doing the other fixed firmly on that crouched demon looming above us, stirring fitfully in the wind. Ma kept me on the porch that day and watched lest I wander off. I was scared at the look in her eyes, a fearful wateriness I had never seen before. 
 
 
 
 In the late afternoon the beast pounced. It came rolling down off the hills with a mournful howl. Clawing itself across the ground, squeezing its dirty fingers into every nook and cranny forcing us to retreat into the farm house, hiding from its stinging gritty sleet. Pa tried to make a game of it that night. All of us camped together in the parlor, huddled together under a makeshift tent of bed sheets as the wind howled and scratched at the timber of our cozy home. Ma sang me off to sleep, rocking me to her chest as she sang lullabies in her quiet soothing voice. 
 
 
 
 We woke the next morning to an outlandish sight. The familiar lines of the barn huddled under a mountain built of fine dust, the ground and everything I could see hidden beneath that same dull shroud. Pa had looked so gloomy that day, his mask of ash colored dust tracked with streaks of slow running tears as he looked out at the torn battered remnants of the fields. 
 
 
 
 The days that followed ran together into a shapeless grey scene. Each day Pa struggling to push back at that ever inching barrage of earth, come to swallow the whole damned place. A creeping uncaring succubus draining and sapping him till his skin was a pale pallor, dyed by worry and his unceasing toil. Each night Ma and Pa debated in hushed vicious tones, each night Ma getting louder and Pa fading as he slowly lost his unceasing war. 
 
 
 
 I woke one morn to a different man. Bowed beneath the weight of the world as he tied each treasured possession to a towering pile strapped to the truck with dust covered rope. That bright grin and shining eyes shuttered beneath a lampshade of his disappointment and misery. His shoulders bent over in mute defeat as we turned our backs to the farm and drove away, unable to battle any longer. 
 
 
 
 Two long years we lived in the camps. Days I spent running through the powdery grey dust, chasing and playing with the other filthy urchins set loose by our parent ’ s indifferent attention, focused instead on their own daily struggle. Two years with the taste of dust on everything, coating the back of my throat and dying my skin into a filthy mottled hue. Two years of Pa sat in that same wooden chair only stirring to refill his glass from the ever present bottle at his elbow. Slowly sinking smaller and deeper into his chair as he watched his world crumble around him, his familiar smell now the stink the dust and his sour whisky. Two years of Ma working from dawn till dusk, begging and scrounging for any job that would put a crust on the table and whisky in Pa ’ s glass. 
 
 
 
 It ended as suddenly as it began, the clouds of dust stilled and the sun smiled again from pale sky, warm on our skin after its long absence. It felt like the camp held its collective breath at first, everyone scared that it was just a brief reprieve in this never-ending storm. Finally people began to pack and leave. Tying belongings back on to long-suffering vehicles, rattling off for yearned for homes. Ma had finally stirred Pa, setting him to packing our home back to the top of our rusted old truck, finally pushing him to carry us home. 
 
 
 
 I almost didn ’ t recognise the farm when we returned, covered as it was with a thick rug of that familiar choking grit, mounded high in a pall over my beloved home. I had wandered out into the desolate fields and stood staring out across that same dull grey feeling numb at our farms indifferent greeting. 
 
 
 
 As I stood there a rumble of thunder stirred the air and with a weary fear that I looked at the sky, ready to see those same familiar dusty clouds. Instead the sky was filled with puffs of fluffy white, rolling through the sky with playful glee. Drifting in the sky with their bright happy form, occasionally burping with burbling thunder. The air felt cool on my skin as I stood and gazed up at that tumbling sky watching clouds that didn ’ t loom in ominous warning, clouds not filled with choking grit. Fat drops of rain had begun to fall, pattering and dimpling the coating of my dust choked realm. 
 
 
 
 My eye was caught by a flash of unfamiliar pigment, a flower peeked from beneath the dark carpet on the ground, small fragile petals washed clean by the fresh purifying rain. I had never seen a flower like this, inked in a hue that stood out brightly from familiar dull shades. A bold and unique color, sketched in warm tones that set my heart pounding in my chest. The rain washed more of the dust away, revealing a carpet of bright happy petals peaking from beneath the featureless plane. 
 
 
 
 I knelt on the ground as the rain fell about me and cupped one of the bright cheerful blossoms in my streaked pale hands. It came away easily as I tugged and sat smiling up at me from my curled sheltering palm.
