We wanted to be a part
of the grand equation:
a nasty nor’easter,
an astronomically high tide,
a new moon —
so we set out in the dark
and the cold, blowing rain
toward the sea wall
to see the storm.
The wind drove us home.
This morning we could see
the flooded road
from our kitchen window.
“Why do you think
they call it Canal Street?”
she asked, smiling.
The tide was coming in
again as I left for
work, thankful to have
four wheel drive.
We like to have storm
stories, telling where we
were when the winds
howled and whirled,
when the tree fell or
the power went out:
stories of survival.
I was miserable walking
last night, but that’s not
how I’ll remember it.
Peace,
Milton
Yes! I longed to be snowed in yesterday, but it didn’t happen like that. I had a regular Sunday (read: workday) and no storm story to tell. But that’s not how I’ll remember it either. I’ll remember the dinner I cooked for my beloved, which we ate in front of her wood stove, laughing.
Pax, C.
Loved the whole piece, but particularly the last line. I know all to well whereof you speak, you old romantic you!
Ohmigod! I can’t believe I misspelled “too!”