Last night a gust of warm weather storm swept cracks of lightening into swirling threads—it cautioned the north then swept the south with speckles of rain and wind, crawling into the crevices of porch corners, tumbling over bricks, under roofs, and in between open windows. The buds bloomed slowly in the bright day but the wicked night was full of gusts and swirls. The hiss of wind lifts away the window ledge, fans the shutters, and claps against the glass. My son poked his head inside our room at 3am; then curled up beside me where he felt warm and safe.
The morning after, 700 miles away, the storm had a different name. Streets lie vacant, of objects, of life, as if nature could erase neighborhoods overnight, draw them up from their roots, and leave only memories gathered up in rubble and soot. It’s a wonder how far and how close 700 miles away feels after a storm.