Nurse the Hate: Hate The Thunderstorm

There is a monster thunderstorm rolling through.  I am alone in the house at dusk, the power has been out for hours.  The lightning strikes flash across the room and the house shakes split seconds afterwards from the tremendous thunder.  A curtain flaps lazily from an open window and it reminds me of a different time, a different place.  The air smells like fresh rain and earth with that particular scent that is only there in summer.  Soon, too soon, the massive lightning moves East and I am left with light drizzle and a weak light fighting through the swirling clouds.  The storm is almost over.

If I had a little more courage, I would take my clothes off and run through the wet yards naked, hoping for one more down pour.  I haven’t done that in years, and don’t feel the likelihood is anywhere close today.  I fear having to explain my chase for that feeling of liberation to the community police force.  “One more time Mr. Miller, what exactly were you doing running through the neighbor’s yards potentially exposing yourself to children?  Did you even consider the children Mr. Miller?”  Meanwhile I would be stammering in an attempt to find the right language to make the crew cut officer get my drift.  He would coldly stare down at me wrapped in a blanket sitting in the backseat of his cruiser.  A small crowd of neighbors will have begun to form nearby, with a large enough gap to keep themselves clean from whatever perversion has afflicted me, but close enough to potentially overhear my truncated childish answers.   No, not today…

The storm has gathered up more steam, ready for another go-round.  The sky has darkened again.  Maybe this will be even better than last time with the kind of lightning strikes so close you jump when they hit.  The kind of lightning strikes that announce confirmation of man’s utter insignificance, but also make a childlike wonder flicker inside.  The candles I have lit provide a warm wobbling light that contrasts with the erratic electric light blue flashes from the storm.  There is a bottle of Cote du Rhone across the room.  It has sat near me for years waiting for the right time.  It would be perfect right now, but it’s not a wine to drink alone.  Instead I will just sit here with the storm.  I will sit.  And wait.  For the right time.