How do I show you a memory?
We could hear the storm rolling up the valley, slowly rumbling in its ascent of our ridge line.
It was big, booming and in no particular hurry. Soon enough it was on top of us, roaring in the trees and shaking the flimsy fabric of the tent we hoped would shelter us through the night. Outside our dog had dug himself a hole underneath a log; he clearly did not comprehend how we could trust our safety to a thin membrane of nylon and aluminum. Lightning illuminated our little cocoon and in the flashes I could see your eyes, wide with excitement and fear. Each following crack or boom reminded us of our status in this world- so little amongst such power.
Nearly twenty years, two cats and another dog later, I’m awakened by lightning. The storm rages outside with a ferocity unusual for New England, but our roof is sturdier than nylon. Doubled layers of glass muffle the thunder and I watch flashes illuminate the night with impunity. You lie sleeping peacefully- undisturbed by the torrent. I slip back into bed and snuggle against your warmth, thinking of that young couple as I drift into camping dreams.