You kept the weather channel up to track the storm, playing in the background while you clean the kitchen, chop the onions for dinner. You listen for the names of towns as it moves in closer. You wonder if you should turn the stove on or wait.
The sirens start. Though they are telling you to head to the basement or the stairwell, you have to see. One huge gunmetal grey cloud just above the highest oak tree branch. The raindrops break on the sidewalk.
You grab the radio on your way down, the flashlight, and the beer. Then you gather the dogs. Windows open or closed? Something about a mattress, but you can’t remember and you aren’t about to pull one off the bed and downstairs. Your neighbor has bottled water and canned foods in his basement. A generator. Months ago, when he was checking to make sure it was working, you shook your head a bit. When you said you didn’t have one, he shook his.
The sirens stop 43 minutes later. Only once did the power flicker off. You shoo the dogs back upstairs and out to the yard. Rain has softened all the edges.
Later, you will watch the news, see the stories of the houses that were leveled. Luckily, this time, no one was hurt, but only because they weren’t home or they had taken shelter. Behind the reporter, roofs are caved in, trees are down.
But right now, in the first few minutes after the storm, when you realize it’s over, you survived and you know it doesn’t always end this way, you feel a calm in the very center of your chest. Not in your heart, but just beneath. Whatever deeper space that’s called.
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