Cold air, blue sky. My own slice of heaven. Lying on my bed with the air conditioner blowing full blast across my body, I kept my eyes on the patch of blue sky that I could see through the sky light.
I felt my body sink into the firmness of my bed. My mind drifted but my eyes fixed hard on the patch of blue.
It had been raining and grey for so long. And it was so hot and humid that the windows sweated and fogged even if they were sheltered from the pouring rain. For a time, stranded in my house by the rising water of the creek, I'd felt like Noah. A check of the calendar, a flick of the wrist on the 'net and I was immediately assured hat it had been four not 40 days. Still..... Blue sky.
Some time later I awoke. The patch of blue had given way to black and I could see the moon playing hide and seek among misty clouds. I shrugged into my robe and stepped out onto the deck. Steamy. Humid and steamy. The grass in my back yard seemed to have grown a foot in the past four days. Mowing would be on the list for tomorrow, I thought, and prayed for a cool breezy afternoon. The sweat that formed on my skin, though, didn't cool me even at this late hour and I knew my wish was denied. Sighing, I stepped back into my sanctuary and shut the door against the oppressive heat.
Orange juice and eggs later, I switched on the TV. Predictably, it was all about the weather - absurd temperatures and high humidity - better than 70% - bathed the continent. More rain was coming. So much water.
Since the ice caps melted drought had not been a problem. Flooding though, particularly on the coast and in the lower lying central plains, had been fatal for more people and domestic animals than even Al Gore had foreseen....
Sunday, March 23, 2008
His soul died....
He chopped the onions and held back tears. He'd blame them on the onions if they broke forth while Mary was around. The usual breakfast ritual had become so ingrained - so accustomed to it that without thinking, he'd come down to the kitchen, opened the garden door and started pulling out the food until... he remembered.
A week. Had it only been a week? He stopped chopping and rested his hip against her stool. He slumped into his memory.
The dogs playing in the garden. Zoey chasing them out the door and down the path to the chicken coop. Returning with fresh eggs ready for omelet making. A typical Saturday morning. Since she was an infant Saturday breakfasts had been their job. She had, early on, become an omelet connoisseur. In fact, he smiled at the memory, the chickens had been her idea " 'Cause then, Dad, we can always have really fresh eggs for our omelets!"
Together they had researched chickens and egg laying. Learning how to get a permit to raise them here in town. Even at 8 Zoey had been able to talk anyone into anything. They had gone to their neighbors and he had listened as she convinced them to sigh the permit application she'd printed in her best third grade penmanship.
So last Saturday she'd brought the eggs in and, for the first time ever, she sat down on the overstuffed chair on the porch rather than coming in and taking up her perch on the stool. He'd checked on her and found her pale, running a temperature. He'd given her a blanket and finished the omelets on his own. When he returned with steaming plates, she was asleep but something wasn't right. He sat with her a moment before going to the phone.
"Mary? It's Jeff. Zoey's sick. Can you come with us to Urgent Care?"
Mary, his sister, was the closest thing to a mom that Zoey had ever had.
By the time she arrived, Zoey was unresponsive, he'd bundled her up in a blanket and was standing at the street Zoey limp in his arms. Mary took one look at his face and stomped on the gas - skipping Urgent Care and going straight to the Emergency Room.
The rest of the morning was a blur... but even now - even as a memory - he could still feel his soul slipping with Zoey's as though down a drain. And then, when they came to tell him, he knew and he felt as though his soul had died.
A week. Had it only been a week? He stopped chopping and rested his hip against her stool. He slumped into his memory.
The dogs playing in the garden. Zoey chasing them out the door and down the path to the chicken coop. Returning with fresh eggs ready for omelet making. A typical Saturday morning. Since she was an infant Saturday breakfasts had been their job. She had, early on, become an omelet connoisseur. In fact, he smiled at the memory, the chickens had been her idea " 'Cause then, Dad, we can always have really fresh eggs for our omelets!"
Together they had researched chickens and egg laying. Learning how to get a permit to raise them here in town. Even at 8 Zoey had been able to talk anyone into anything. They had gone to their neighbors and he had listened as she convinced them to sigh the permit application she'd printed in her best third grade penmanship.
So last Saturday she'd brought the eggs in and, for the first time ever, she sat down on the overstuffed chair on the porch rather than coming in and taking up her perch on the stool. He'd checked on her and found her pale, running a temperature. He'd given her a blanket and finished the omelets on his own. When he returned with steaming plates, she was asleep but something wasn't right. He sat with her a moment before going to the phone.
"Mary? It's Jeff. Zoey's sick. Can you come with us to Urgent Care?"
Mary, his sister, was the closest thing to a mom that Zoey had ever had.
By the time she arrived, Zoey was unresponsive, he'd bundled her up in a blanket and was standing at the street Zoey limp in his arms. Mary took one look at his face and stomped on the gas - skipping Urgent Care and going straight to the Emergency Room.
The rest of the morning was a blur... but even now - even as a memory - he could still feel his soul slipping with Zoey's as though down a drain. And then, when they came to tell him, he knew and he felt as though his soul had died.
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