Becoming Settled
Saturday, August 25th, 2007Pulling the orange cord through my fingers and looping it systematically, I withstood the heat rising from the scorched concrete.
The heat and sun felt strange to me, having just driven back home from the city, where fat droplets had made it difficult to even cross the street to get to my car. I had hurriedly throwing my tools and extension cord in the trunk, fiddled with my wipers, and left.
I managed to become a little lost. The redeeming feature of city blocks is that they tend to form right angles, and I eventually found the main road.
My wipers fought the rain as I made it to the highway, my mind concentrating more on the stained water running off the road than on driving. Two months, I think it’s been. Dry, emaciated foliage leaned and drooped everywhere.
A mile out of the city, the pale blue sky hit, slick asphalt traded for dry. The hills in the distance stood relief in sunlight, the same hot breath they’d felt for weeks.
I left the rain behind.
I could see the dark gray off to the west, forming and toiling, but these clouds gave their gift selectively.
When I reached home, I unloaded the hastily coiled cord from my trunk and began to form it into large loops. Ants scurried away from my feet in a way that almost scared me, as though I were something to fear.
Almost on a whim, I glanced up to see if maybe, just possibly, the clouds were coming towards me. Above the roof line, the sun backlit a high-altitude cloud, streams of light pinpricking the haze from around the curled formation.
I added each loop, twisting the cord between my fingers to make it settle.
I began to wonder how long I could keep it up — how long could I push until I, too, succumbed? Unlike the plants, water couldn’t save me. I needed the storm.