Storm

When I was a kid, I used to watch a coming storm for hours.  The area of the midwest I'm from is so flat, that you could literally watch a storm arrive for 8 hours.  The sky would slowly get darker, as a storm like a battleship sailed slowly toward me, moving like a minute hand, slow, but fast enough to see if you're really looking.  Eventually, the temperature would drop, and the first sprinkles of rain would begin to fall.  The odor of the air would change and get the wood and steel smell that could mean hail.  If the sky got green, it was time to head for the basement.

During the worst storms, I would hide under a couch in our basement, and cross my fingers and toes in an effort to have luck ward off the tornado that my Dad was watching out the windows for, upstairs.  The AM radio in the kitchen would crackle with every lightning strike.  As nervous as I was under the couch, I was never really scared.  After all, my Dad was looking out for me upstairs, and drinking coffee.  He was wandering room to room looking out for the telltale swirl of a funnel cloud.  I didn't have anything to worry about, really.  But, that didn't mean I came out of my hiding place until Dad gave the "all clear".

We never got hit by a tornado.  In fact, I was fifteen before I ever actually SAW one.  It was miles away.  Maybe six or seven.  it was jumping from the clouds to the ground and up again.  After a few minutes, it split into two smaller funnels and quickly dissolved.   I remember being sad about that.  This horrible, furious tornado reduced to insignificance without doing it's god-given duty to level a trailer park.

All that said, I'm starting to feel like that ill-fated tornado.  Like I'm losing strength.  Like my fury and purpose is shrinking.  Like my spin is giving out.  I also feel like that little version of me, under that couch, crossing my fingers.  But this time, nobody is looking out for the storm.  There's no such thing as luck, and nobody is drinking coffee and listening to the news upstairs.  I'm alone and failing.

Fortunately, I'm starting to realize that I'm not alone under that furniture.  My wife is there with me too.  Just as scared as I am, but holding me tightly.   And, as long as she's with me, I'm not as scared anymore.  If we get swept up in the storm, sucked into the sky with all our stuff, at least I'll have someone to hold my hand when the twister spits us out into the night, wet and cold.

I hope she holds on tight.