It really is quiet after the storm.
That level of peaceful is rare at my house. The clock says 4:22 am, but under normal conditions that doesn’t guarantee silence. Because my husband often works nights, even 4:22 is accompanied by light from the hall and his steady voice rising and falling to the rhythm of dictation.
I don’t know what time the storms started tonight. It must have been after I fell asleep. The first storm wave rolled in with the first kid crawling into our bed.
He entered under other “circumstances” likely to justify the need for mom and dad during the wind and rain.
Awhile later, the three of us were awakened by the storm’s main event. Wind and rain were magnified by lightening, thunder and hail.
My dad loves storms. I grew up predominantly in the Midwest which has spectacular lightening. As soon as the rain started, we would head out to the porch in hopes of lightening. It wasn’t the random ill-timed lightening of Texas storms, it would start with a few flashes a few seconds apart and build into wiry, jagged firework displays that would fill miles and miles of black, open sky accompanied by the smell of fresh and falling rain.
My kids don’t love storms. They have grown up in Texas where lightening isn’t celebrated, it is a precursor to thunder. The Midwest may specialize in lightening, but Texas knows how to execute thunder. It isn’t the occasional electric crash of Midwest storms, it is a freight train on a roller coaster track with locomotive parts flying off the uncontrollable motion. There is never not thunder in a big storm. There is a constant, persistent underlying rumble. The rising, billowing vibrations appear without warning shaking windows and causing children to scurry under warm covers to huddle in parental arms while listening to the thunder fall into constant, persistent underlying rumble.
The rain has collected in the creek running next to the house. I can see it occasionally with random flashes of light. A creek that was dry yesterday nearly choking the cattails into an early death, but now I suspect they have met a different fate. Their journey has ended downstream with tree limbs, unsecured trash and the occasional patio chair carried by spontaneous rapids. Rapids that create a temporary river that tames with the rising of the sun and evaporates in the Texas summer.
It is quiet now.
For a few more hours.
Until eyes open and little arms stretch and start the re-telling of last night’s storm.