As the storm descends on Brookside, I speak a few soft words to the dog. She settles in her bed and I climb the stairs. I sit in front of the open window, letting the wind flow past, eyes closed, feet on my grandmother’s little stool.
My week held much. Clients who cried in my office; a few hours of personal panic; fellowship; friendship; some Come-to-Jesus moments. Humanity showed itself in great waves.
Now the thunder ripples and crackles through the sky. The broken blind falls in a crooked pattern and the flashes of lightening play on its slats. I find this week of weather disconcerting, more like a Missouri spring than late summer. But I will not complain. True enough the weeds have overtaken the garden and the dog whimpers if I try to coax her outside after dark. It could be so worse though; ask any Italian. Any Syrian. Any worried mother of a son walking home from school. Ask anyone with anything different about them, standing in a sea of sameness, frightened and alone. I can weather this storm. I have seen worse.
A few hours ago, my legs quit working and I actually slept away the evening. When I awoke from an uneasy dream of catastrophe, the dog had fallen quiet on the stoop. I stood outside watching the gathering gloom, thinking, How lovely the sky! How majestic! Then I let the dog skitter past me into the kitchen. I said goodnight to my neighbor, who waited for his own dog scampering around their yard. Something close to peace filled my breast.
It’s the twenty-sixth day of the thirty-second month of My Year Without Complaining. The heavens just opened and rain pelts the roof of my home. But I am safe. Life continues.