storm story


    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.



    1. 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.

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