Summer Storm

I sat on the steps and watched the sky, roiling and tumbling clouds angrily shoving at each other and occasionally slapping lightning in quick, brief bursts. The air hung heavy with that smell of just-before-rainfall, and a slight delicate breeze betrayed the lingering heat and hinted at the gusts to follow. The bricks beneath me held the day’s warmth and were a solid reminder of the stability and comfort that were slipping through my fingers. A sob caught in my throat, unwelcome and despised, as the storm crackled and sizzled, making hairs stand on end. My chest felt tight, constricted, despite the overabundance of air and freedom outside, and the darkness above hid any comfort or answers I was seeking.
A trickle of rain collapsed pitifully on the driveway then stopped. I watched my neighbors go about their weekend chores, kids trapped circling on bikes in garages, cars with uncertain and hesitant wipers winding slowly home. I didn’t expect forever, because who can anymore? Love, life, happiness, we’re all grown ups and we all know it’s all only temporary. I had steeled myself for a mere five years, five years I had told myself would be plenty, more than enough to establish a nice home in a safe and pretty neighborhood. Play house with people I loved and start a family of my own with their support. Five years should be enough to settle in, make it our own, decorate, start a garden, become active in the community, get pregnant and see that baby become a toddler. Just five years, that wasn’t so much to ask for. Six months is nothing. Six months hasn’t even seen an anniversary or an evaluation. Six months is a slap on the wrist for a crime committed, only partway to nine months, and only half of a year. Six months can’t grow asparagus or show you all the seasons.
The storm continued to build, just more unbearable pressure that had to be borne. Dismayed children trudged home from the closed swimming pool, clutching towels lonely for chlorine, back to television and video games and whatever other indoor distractions could hold their attention. None of those things were working for me today. People that I cared about deeply were in pain in the house behind me, upstairs in the bright and empty room where we watched other people’s stories but didn’t tell our own, and I didn’t want to be another silent ghost. All the work we had done, all the sacrifices and compromises and worry, not only for nothing but about to begin anew, and alone.
A sudden explosion of thunder roared and then echoed, wanting more attention. The answering lightening inevitably followed, a flash of burning, but still no rain fell. My thoughts rumbled and crackled and I’m angry one minute, sad the next. I try to catch my breath and finally cry, heaving loudly and unattractively, grateful that no one can hear or see me, knowing that no one could give me comfort. I cry for my friends, I cry for the house underneath me that I love that I must start to say good bye to, I cry for the uncertainty of the future and the surety of what I am losing. I cry for mistakes made, and lessons learned, and the fear of painful decisions still to come.
The duet becomes a trio as the fat drops deluge, the final act and the closing number. I want to stay but don’t want to have to change out of wet clothes, don’t want the discomfort of cold strands of hair, know that I can’t leave with the storm when it has had its final say. I turn my face upwards and let the downfall wash away the evidence, then gather up my sweater, gather up my thoughts, and walk into the house to disappear.