Day 26: A storm?

We had a tantalizing taste of spring today, 80 degrees with brilliant blue skies streaked with wispy clouds. 

The sky is orange tonight, tinged with a neon purple like sizzling summer fireworks. It’s a full moon, but a cloud cover blindingly lit by lightning obscures it. 

Rumbling thunder is building, loping behind the lightning, but a storm will come. Eventually. 

I’m on the back deck, earbuds in, stretched across two deck chairs fresh out of winter storage. A candle flickers on the table beside me, its faint scent overpowered by the smell of the nearby storm that reminds me of a blown-out match smoldering black and glowing red. 

The light is strange. The white blossoms on neighbors’ apricot tree are fresh fallen snow lost in a muggy, summery evening. The lightning flashes are closer together now, angrier and urgent. And thunder nips at its heels.

I want to feel something: catharsis. I miss the determined desperation I felt in that first week of this quarantine, and I got used to all of this so quickly. 

The rain is here, and I wish I could cry. Crying feels so good, freeing. But I don’t have the tears. Not sad tears, not happy tears, not tears of rage or fear. I am rational, ready, pragmatic. I am the strong friend. 

Am I numb?

Don’t tease me, storm. I didn’t come all the way out here for 15 seconds of fat drops drumming on metal gutters. Frighten me. Blind me. Call me to dance without a care for my wet clothes and bare feet. Dare me to feel something.

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