Storm of Another Kind

Following a late night storm...

we awoke to a new tomorrow. My memory of the next day only comes in small mindful glances. But I remember the debris and a gaping hole in a roof down the road. I heard whispered conversations of a twister. And though I was too young to understand what a tornado was, I knew it was scary thing. 

I knew it came with thunderstorms...

and we lived in The Midwest in Belleville, Illinois. Raucous thunderstorms rattled windows spring, summer and fall, and lit the skies with lightening displays that brightened the darkest nights. I remember hallways full of children, each one of us with one forearm over our eyes as we leaned into the walls. The other arm over the back of our heads as much as we were able, shielding ourselves from debris if a funnel decided drop its tail from the sky and crash through the school roof. And when the sirens screamed all clear, we lined up (each of us trembling) and walked obediently back to our classrooms, thankful the ceilings were still in tact. 

2:00 in the morning!

My eyes startled wide open, adjusting to the dark room. And I heard it again, "Do you know what time it is?" The yelling, screaming from the kitchen. "Where were you?" I crept from my bed into the hallway near to where my parents yelled loud and frightful. My heart beat faster at every word hurled furious between them. I peered around the doorjamb, the very moment hands met faces hard and jarring. I turned and ran back to my room, leaped into my bed, and pulled the covers over my head. Yelling, slamming doors, more yelling... Please stop...

When I was barely eight...

Mom moved my brother and me to Southern California, land of orange groves, strawberries, Disney, and long stretches of sandy beaches. And if thunder ever rumbled, it was vague and unobtrusive. My heart learned to rest at the sound of rain in this place.

Yet another storm was fast approaching. This one, far worse than I could have ever dreamed.