Memory is a funny thing. The bits and pieces I recall from my youth are triggered by the strangest things. I spent yesterday driving to doctor appointments and to see my sister. We had only a short evening of dinner and shopping before I started home again. Driving in the rain from her house to dinner, I remembered this long ago storm.
Dark clouds gathered, lightening flashed, thunder rumbled. Bigger and brighter strikes brought louder and longer booms. Wind blew strong and fierce. The smell of rain consumed the air.
That day in 1965, my mother, my brother and I stood on the front porch of our Oklahoma home and watched the storm gather force. We expected Dad to come home at any time from Kansas City, where he worked all week.
We stood there watching and waiting. My brother, drinking a Pepsi, said that Dad would be home soon. I wanted to believe him, but had my doubts.
Morning gave way to afternoon. More clouds, dark and menacing, rolled overhead. Jagged streaks of light danced in and around the clouds. Deafening thunder crashed all around. Trees whipped wildly in the wind. Their branches clashed together and leaves scattered across any open grass.
Slowly, the storm arrived. Rain beat the old tin roof of the house then streamed in sheets down into the flowerbeds. Puddles quickly formed then ran down the hill to the creek below.
Suddenly, the rage passed. In the aftermath, a slow gentle rain fell and we finally gave up on Dad's arrival. Mom was sad, my brother mad, and disappointment engulfed me, crushing my heart and lungs. I grabbed a jacket and walked into the woods, letting the rain hide my tears, wash the frustration away and soothe my heart.
Late in the day, the sun appeared between breaking clouds. Baby blue streaks shone among the gray. A rainbow arched over the hill. The storm spent, evening arrived to cover the earth with a blanket of blinking stars.
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