A Storm

It is 4:02 am and I am up. So here it is, the Tropical Depression.  Troptober they say. Finally.  We waited all day yesterday for it.  Nothing.  Even last night it was sticky and quiet, and no sign of it. I sat on the porch looking and waiting.  Nothing, not even a change in the smell of the air.  No ruffle of wind, no thickening of clouds.   It felt odd to me, something was coming, brewing, but I had to stop waiting for it … to stop looking for it.  It would either come or not. I love that the Weather Channel describes this storm as a person: they name it and talk about her change in character and nature.  A guest about to arrive?  A child about to have a tantrum? No one knows.

Her wind blew me out of my bed.  Literally. The sheets of rain were LOUD and heavy, even a bit unforgiving.  I tried to go back to sleep but nothing arrived.  I figured I needed to get up … something was compelling me to watch this, take note.  She arrives so forcibly – how could I not greet her?  She was impossible to ignore.  (That would also be rude!)

As I swing by feet out of bed, I know that I am headed at some point today down the street to collect various window screens that the wind is prying off the house – maybe even a bit of wading into the river if they drifted that far. My room is encased in windows.  I roll up every single one of my shades and watch.  The torrents of rain are so heavy and fast that I can barely see familiar shapes outside. Our Crape Myrtle tree by the mailbox and the swing set are huge blobs of shadow.  My whole room is reflected out into the night.  Sitting in my chair I can see the whole room replicated in the reflection of the glass.  The rain is now a steady stream giving this reflection some clarity; the picture is a bit sharper to me.   I can see it all in the storm: my alarm clock, my stack of books on my night table, a tea-cup, a clumsy pile of shoes in the corner  — even me in my chair! I wave to myself just to make sure I am seeing it all correctly.  Fondly, I wave back.

I keep thinking that the lull of rain and wind should make me sleepy.  No dice.  There is still too much noise.  The gutters are gushing with rain water and the wind though tamed a bit is still a steady braying.  Now I hear the sirens.  An ambulance or a fire truck, I am not sure which, races towards Sea Bright.  The scream comes rushing up into my ears and then fades back again. It moves me to “check on” things. I run down the hall to make sure that the leak in Harry’s room has not started up again … and that window near the bookcases  that leaked like a sieve over the summer is tight still.  The boys are untouched by it all. They are still tight in their cocoons.

But then my alarm starts to quietly flash — a light blinks for 30 seconds before the blaring buzzer begins.  It is my subtle nudge to start the day.  It is time to get up.  Again.   Now, it’s time to go out into the rain and share it with the rest of the world.  It is time to move and no longer observe.  Time to well, basically get wet.

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