I Want To Fly

The storm hammered at the bathroom skylight, lifting sheet metal with each gust of wind. Rain slanted across the windows of the house like a driving cloudburst in a speeding car. On the main floor wind whistled through an open window. A steady flow of water from the storm puddled inside on the painted wood and reached the edge in a thin line. It collected at the precipice of the window sill, bulging over the edge. Water breached the corner, and the over-sized droplet splattered on the tile floor below. One drop quickly became two, and the pace increased for hours as the rain intensified.

When I opened my eyes the window framed the dark iron blue sky outside. The light was dull. I forgot to close the slatted blinds before flopping into the pillows of my bed the night before. Whatever light there was shined in, painting the room flat gray.

Humidity was thick and sneaking through the walls and blending with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I breathed a sigh and my dream from moments before came into focus.

I walked on tightrope lines above a grove of palms. The shallow base of the trees lifted, circling and morphing into a flaming pit. The fire glowed on vines of flowers and the windswept petals floated high. The sky turned dark and released the rain filling the pit and snuffing the flame.

I had woken up in a cloud of fabric. My dream complimented the force field pounding a torrent of rain over my house. It was abstract and disjointed, but comfortable. I felt protected, and the vision of palm trees made me smile.

Behind tall cumulonimbus clouds the sun rose hidden. No glow escaped the edges. A solid wall of dark angry clouds with deep throated thunder and cracks of light flitted through the hallway leading to the bathroom. Red eyes were revealed in the framed pictures arranged on the wall, and flashes bounced off the protective glass.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I looked closely at my eyes. The light from large globes seemed harsh when compared to the dull low light from the stormy morning outside. Nonetheless, I accepted the fate of wrinkles forming at the corner of my eyes. I brushed my teeth. I followed with a cool rinse over my face. Another strike of light filled the bathroom. My eyes were wide when the crack of thunder followed.

Plastic clicks of child proof bottles and rattling tablets played like maracas when pulled from the cabinet. Blue, white and brown pills tumbled across the counter like dice at a casino craps table. I stared at the pills and looked back at the mirror. I contemplated the ramification of flushing the whole lot.

A hiding spider and framed faces in the hallway listened to the internal conversation. Words from an online post I had recently read came to mind. “Take your meds. Drink water. Handle your shit - me to my mirror.” I snatched them all with force. I took a pass on a roll of the dice, and gulped them down in one swallow. “No reason to gamble today,” I said to the spider.

The dark clouds and wind continued to rage outside as the storm halted over the house. The open window in the vestibule worked as a vent as the pressure outside dropped through the fruit trees and wispy grasses of the otherwise quiet seclusion of my property.

The rain beat on the roof, and was louder the closer I walked toward the vestibule. My greenhouse was situated down a short hallway near the front door where I could see large fan leaves of an elephant ear bouncing in the breeze from the open window. Its thick stock stood over five feet tall as it sat at the entrance to the greenhouse. Angled glass covered two walls and half of the ceiling, protecting it from the elements outside and illuminating the room on sunny days.

Inside the greenhouse the potter’s bench and tall shelves were constructed of heavy lumber and were aging with rounded corners. Massive leaves of the banana trees and pink cloud caladiums reached toward the middle of the room, while thin sprouts of the ferns grew out like tentacles. The overwhelming trumpet vine and passion flowers crawled about the walls and into the crevices between clay pots. Near the back wall, bags of fresh soil, mulch, and fertilizers of varying brands sat upright, fat and bulging at the base. Trowels and knives hung on a pegboard above the bench, and bamboo poles leaned against the wall in the corner awaiting their marching orders.

Prominent and centered, a pygmy date palm sat heavy like an enormous pineapple, its fronds angular and complicated, bending with heavy weight and tips pointing down like the beak of a bird. Extending from the vestibule, a thin walkway revealed a floor of white tiles, each with a delicate blue design. The tiled path curved around the date palm and continued to the back wall where a slop sink balanced on four skinny legs.

A spray of mist from a maze of pipes created an exotic experience when the sun shined through the glass in the morning. The extra heat combined with the moisture in the air created a fantasy world that fogged the room and made the windows sweat with dripping water.

Rain continued to collect on the floor below the open window, and the pool of water now reached from the vestibule into the greenhouse. The tile pattern camouflaged the stream as it made its way to the floor drain situated toward the back, near the slop sink.

When I finally made it into the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee helped open my eyes. Coffee and creamer swirled in a circle and blended into a perfect shade of brown. The first sip momentarily steamed my glasses, and the smell of coconuts emanated from the cup.

Outside the window, small nappy birds, with feathers ruffled, hunkered in the lower twigs and thatch of a tall bush. The birds sounded happy, and they shook and poked at one another despite the rain. The small group of sparrows jumped from one skinny twig to the next. They were protected from the wind and rain in a childish game of tag. Others rooted around in the wet soil below.

I sat motionless and quiet while I studied the ornithology exhibit outside my window. I sat forward, perched on the edge of a carved oak chair. I listened to the chirps and cheeps through the glass. I presented myself to the small flock. I wanted to play the game. I wanted to be tagged and have a good reason to reach out and touch feathers. I wanted to touch their light and buoyant hollow bones and sharp crooked beaks.

“I want to fly,” I said out loud, and the air pressure outside drew the words through an open window and into a gray vortex of water droplets. The pulling winds bent the wispy grasses and the leaves of the fruit trees flapped like flags in a gale. As the temperature fell at high altitudes the droplets turned to crystals, and the otherworldly phenomenon of a hailstorm beat to the ground outside my window in the thick heat of summer. It started as peas and escalated to large marbles within minutes, blasting the green leaves of the bush, and tearing the flags from their poles.

The saturated feathers of the sparrows puffed out for protection despite their cover under the bush. Soon they were invisible, presumably tucked tight together like rafts tethered closely, moving as one on waves at sea.

Within a mile of the house, just beyond a slow rising hill across open space, splintered lumber from a demolished garage spun in a circle at speeds topping 100 miles per hour. A light pole and a stream of black tires joined the rubble in a horizontal trip around the eye of a tornado.

What started as a protective barrier over my house took a turn within seconds of the rapping marbles on the rooftop. The echo from the skylight reverberated through the house like a large speaker. My weather alert system blared out.

The hailstorm and rain was deafening. The bush outside the window disappeared with the sparrows. I wasted no time in gathering several items. I tried to see the storm out every window I passed, but there was nothing to see except water rushing down the glass and the flexing pressure upon it. Where light should be, there was darkness. Rich greens of summer were replaced with white drifts of hail.

The fully charged weather alert system sat on the bathroom counter on the main floor providing updates every minute to empty rooms.

In the basement I had an ink pen and a large drawing pad. My cell phone and five candles laid on a table. Wind shook the house and I heard shattering glass among the roar only feet above my head. A small TV provided light from across the room. After a few minutes, and before I was able to find local news or weather updates, the TV went black. The small basement windows let next to no light into the room. The darkness was alarming for mid morning.

“Do I have a lighter?” I asked the spider. The spider questioned my choice of emergency items that surrounded me. My face glowed in the darkness while I searched my phone for answers.

An hour passed while I sat cross legged on the floor in the doorway. My thoughts spun as the twister outside subsided. The loud rush and roar of the storm passed. The shifting of furniture and the raging loudspeaker of a skylight was now quiet. There was calm in the house and presumably outside as well.

When I reached the top step coming out of the basement, I was met with resistance when trying to open the door. I pushed hard on the door and was able to move it just enough to squeeze through, head first then my body.

Blocking the door was a large upright oak cabinet with ornate hardware and four glass doors. It was the largest piece of furniture on the main floor of my house. The cabinet appeared completely unscathed. The glass doors were closed, plates and cups stacked, aside from two coffee cups sitting on their side. There was a shelf of memorabilia and small figurines, all standing at attention, as if the shelf and various knickknacks were recently dusted and replaced on their mark.

I surveyed the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place. I walked around the corner through the dining room, noticing the vacant space where the cabinet had been. Perplexed, I stopped. It really made no sense. I followed the route the cabinet took to get to the basement door. The floors were wood so I could understand the cabinet’s smooth ride. However, it was difficult to imagine it sliding upright with the amount of pressure needed to move it ten feet to the opening of the kitchen, and then it's nearly one hundred eighty degree turn to swivel and reach the basement door.

I rounded the corner looking back toward the cabinet as it sat in front of the basement door. Just beyond, hanging on the wall, was a framed drawing of a perfect circle. My drawing. I was very familiar with it. It was exceptional, but for a different reason today. It appeared perfectly level, hanging within inches of the cabinet. Nothing else was out of place: drawing paper on the kitchen table; a jar of pens; a wood drying rack next to the sink; small plants on a window sill; pictures in the hallway; cut flowers and herbs in a vase; pillows on a sofa; everything on the fireplace mantle. The list went on. Everything sitting in its place.

The sound had been explosive only an hour before. I had heard the glass. The floor above had sounded like an army tromping off to battle. Yet, the main floor was untouched, except for a three hundred pound oak cabinet.