Weather

The storm brings an early close to the day. Vendors at the Weston farmers market pack up their wares in haste, wind chuffing the tops of the sun canopies and tugging at the poles and tethers.

I pull into my long gravel drive just as the skies burst and fat drops of rain hit my windshield. I park my truck into the garage, apples bumping about in the back as our forward momentum stops. I take a deep breath before tugging my keys from the ignition with a shaky hand.

Rain pummels the earth in sheets creating rivers in the dirt between the garage and the house. I run full tilt, drenched through before I reach the kitchen door.

Inside, I shrug off my coat and jeans, leaving them in a puddle by the door and pad to my bedroom. The sheets and blanket lay crumpled at the foot of the narrow bed. Pulling on warm sweats and a dry shirt I ponder how it was that after all these years I still hate storms.

I was eight when the stream swept me away, lightning split the sky and my dad screamed for me as he ran along the bank. Tree branches and pieces of lumber raced me to the bridge where I was finally washed ashore. If my dad hadn’t been there and pushed the water from my lungs, replacing it with the gift of his breath I would not have lived.

Tears run down my face, mimicking the cascade of rain on the windows.

Thunder rumbles, rattling the glass in its pane. I shudder, wondering how I’ll weather the night.