Unearthing a community of souls
Yes, we miss our old lives. Or we don’t. We want to shout into the wind, and perhaps need to shout at ourselves. We’re finally immersed in the monotonous details of our every day.
There was a tropical storm this morning. Dark and swirling. Threatening flash floods.
Get away from the windows.
Come downstairs.
Get off the porch.
The trees are old and tall. Canopies sway and twist, holding against the wind and risking themselves. The upturned leaves of the knotty oak stretch to funnel the rain to its feet.
Our dinky pier is swallowed by the muddy, brackish river. The air hangs still despite the ruckus.
In this new normal, we must lean on ourselves.
We hunker into it. Pillow forts and jigsaw puzzles and so many books. Watercolor paints. Slime recipes. Guacamole and chips for lunch.
The electricity flickers over and over for a few hours. Until it doesn’t. Until the blue sky sighs hello and the birds gather back to their watercooler.
Is it weird that I miss the storm?
I step onto the grass, crisp at attention having shed the old. A tangle of zinnias rebounds after the torrent. The hydrangeas elbow each other for sun yet refuse to bloom this…
