Oh, the Storms how They Roll
July 30, 2010
I was watching the night skies for birds that fly when the sun goes down, and never saw the storm roll in. The weathermen didn’t warn me, the breeze never changed, the sirens were never activated. In one blink of an eye the sky fell in rocky pebbles right down over my head. The lightning wrapped itself into a tight ball in my chest, and the thunder rattled the bones in my hands. And when I opened my eyes again with the expectation that the sky was the sky and this guy was this guy, there was nothing left to see. This guy was not that guy. There was no sky, just a void where thisguy used to be.
Still, the birds fly even when there is no sky, and this guy will just be that one guy in no time. And like the sky, thisguy will become the kind of memory that you know is there in the neuron clusters, but is impossible to really recall. Like the smell of rain. Or the dream you had last night. Or what you really felt on the first date.
So now we wait. We wait for the kind of storm that happens at the end of Catcher in the Rye. The kind of storm that people take cover from, and the characters of importance stand under. The kind of storm that gives meaning to the sky.
