It isn’t raining yet, but the sky is covered with gray, heavy clouds. Wind blows the bare tree branches against the window.
She pushes her nose against the window pane. It’s cold. Her eyes are unfocused. Her breath fogs up the glass.
Her son runs into the dim room. She flinches. His boisterous energy often startles her. She pulls back from the window, eyes abruptly focused on the circle of fog from her nostrils.
“Have you seen the clouds, mom? The sky is almost black if you look out the back door!” His volume hurts her skin. “I want to make sure the squirrel who lives in the maple tree isn’t scared!” He runs out of the room.
She draws in the fading fog with her finger: two dots, one curved line. Eyes and a sad mouth. She wipes the face off the glass with the palm of her hand and leaves a smudge. A low rumble of thunder rolls in the distance. She turns around, leans against the window, sinks to the floor. The cat nuzzles her hand, but she ignores her. She thought thunderstorms weren’t supposed to happen in the winter. Lots of things weren’t supposed to happen, though, and they still did. Bumblebees shouldn’t be able to fly, but they can. People say they will always love you, but they stop. Thunderstorms shouldn’t happen in the winter, but one is about to.
Her left thumb rubs her ring finger. She still expects to feel the familiar circle of gold there, but it’s gone now, thrown into the field outside in a fit of rage and grief.
Lightning flashes, temporarily brightening the room. Thunder shakes the wall. The cat jumps up, meows, darts behind the couch. Her son is on the front porch, yelling, “Mom! …my storm book! …convection!” The wind sweeps his words away. She needs to call him inside. It’s not safe out there.
She opens her mouth to speak. Nothing happens.
She licks her lips. Tries to swallow. Her throat is too dry.
She closes her eyes, counts to three, and forces herself to stand. She walks out of the room, through the dark hallway to the front door. Her body feels like it’s trapped in sludge.
The front door is open. She looks through the glass storm door. Her son is standing on the porch railing. She needs to get him inside before something bad happens.
Suddenly, the rain begins. Her son tosses back his head, holds on to a post with one arm, throws the other arm into the air. He screams a primal shriek into the sky.
She moves forward, pushes the storm door open, steps onto the porch. It’s so cold.
He turns to look at her. His cheeks, still soft and curved, are wet. She realizes it’s not from the rain. His eyes and nose are red and leaking. They look into each other’s eyes and she sees her own pain mirrored in his.
She goes to him, puts her arm around him. He stays standing, one arm around a post, the other around her shoulders. She looks at the ragged yard and the driveway. The once-green grass is muddy and brown. The empty space beside her car mocks her. It feels like the rain is attacking the earth, attacking her.
Her son closes his eyes and screams again. She isn’t startled this time. She closes her eyes, lifts her head, throws out her arm, and opens her mouth. This time, sound comes out. She screams with him.
There is thunder, lightning.
They scream until their voices begin to give out.
The rain slows, the storm rolls into the distance. She wipes his tears, picks him up off the railing, holds him close. They’re both shivering.
She takes him inside, turns on a lamp, wraps him in a blanket, lays him on the couch. His book about storms is on the coffee table. He picks it up and flips through it. She goes to the kitchen to make chamomile tea for herself, hot cocoa for him.
His voice travels from the living room to the kitchen while she mixes cocoa into a mug of hot milk. “My book explains all of it! Thunderstorms happen in the winter when the surface of the earth is cold, but there’s a warm layer in the atmosphere above that provides energy for the storm. It’s called elevated convection! So cool.”
She picks up the warm mugs and feels her lips turn upward into a smile.
She will go back into the living room, set his cocoa down on a coaster near him. She will smooth his hair and kiss his head and settle in to cuddle with him while his voice washes over her, boisterous and sweet. The cat will emerge from behind the couch and purr by her feet. The house will feel warm. Tomorrow morning, she will wash the windows.
