Storms

We're in the midst of a thunderstorm this evening. It's one of those summery, simmery storms that erupt seemingly out of nowhere. The sky is blue-ish, the breeze warm enough to bake an apple pie and stiff enough to blow out the damn pilot light. Then the dark clouds begin to roll in. Billow is too soft a descriptive term. Abrupt, they loom above, like a way too tall person who's just a bit threatening.

The light. I love the light of a storm. The sickly puce overhead, bilious. Looking like Someone's about to vomit up there. It makes my knees shiver, reminding me of tornado warnings past. The night my parents went out, leaving me in charge of my brothers. A storm didn't blow over, and we huddled in the den, watching the weather reports and the sky. Feeling the eerie stillness before the winds.

Or there is the lack of light. The deep, enveloping darkness that sweeps in with alacrity, sucking the breeze out. Blinds pulled, shades drawn, a knock-out blow. It feels like you've stepped into a closet and inadvertently elbowed the door shut. Too little air, too little light.

Tonight, it was the green light. The storm swept in with a great deal of circumstance, but very little pomp. I'll still need to water this evening, as it added little, if any, moisture to the ground. Yet the moisture in the air could be wrung out like a sponge. Water is never where you need it.

Now it is twilight. Emerald and cornflower, with a few deep gray clouds lurking overhead. Annie's in the papasan across the room, waiting for some couch time with Mom. Schafer's there, too, hiding from the thundergod in her lap. But I want to linger at the window a few more minutes, savoring the tag-end of this weather.

Until tomorrow,
Liz