Persevere

All the usual signs pointed to a storm coming this evening.

She stood at the kitchen sink of their farmhouse, staring out the window. A drinking glass on the windowsill held marigolds, echinacea, and tiger lily, all from the garden that was planted just below. The bunches of six-foot-tall sunflowers at either end of the garden framing the faded green wall.

The sun from the west, over their wheat field, had turned the paint. Much like she felt the sun had turned her and her husband over the years working their home. Despite their still young age. She wondered how weathered they might be by the time they were their parents’ ages.

Her husband and young son leaving the barn had caught her eye. She smiled. Then her gaze turned back to the clouds that blocked the sun she knew could be so harsh.

Funny, she thought, how here, these clouds portend such a storm, but without them, the bright sun is too much this time of year.

These were the thoughts she opened herself up to whenever she watched the sky. Anything and everything, something or nothing, it didn’t matter what the thoughts were, but that she could think them, and do so under the beauty of everything around her. She was such a woman that would’ve likely been accused of witchcraft and doing the devil’s work hundreds of years ago, merely for their eccentricities and exerting free will, enjoying nature.

The fridge held several photos of her and her family exploring the land. The latest photo, her proudly standing beside the sunflowers and almost level with the same height as them, is what she currently held in her hand and had paused in her task of adding the newest Polaroid to the display so that she could check the sky.

Paul and their son Morgan had now noticed her at the window and waved. She turned to look at them again just as a strike of lightning cracked in the distance behind them. The thunder coming a couple seconds after.

She automatically glanced down at the latch in the floor that led to the root cellar. Her attention quickly brought to the frightened boy running into the house.

“Mommy!” the boy screamed as the screen door flew open, clanging against the sturdier main door. The boy ran directly into her, grasping her legs. She held him to her, soothing him.

Paul walked in a moment after and shut both doors. He gave his wife a worried look.

“Listen honey,” she said as she bent down to hold her son by the shoulders and look into his face, “you’re safe with us.” He wasn’t crying, but she knew he might start if the lightning came much closer this way. “Go ahead and get a stuffie from your bed to hold.” The boy hesitantly left his mother, glancing out the window as he left the room. From his six-year-old vantage point, that was a bad idea. All he could see through the glass were the dark clouds. At least Joyce could see the dim light of the sun below the distant edge of the storm.

“Everything’s set if we have to go down. At least we’re all in here just in time. We just finished putting the new door on the barn’s cellar.”

She smiled.

“What?” her husband asked, vexed, one eyebrow cocked at the juxtaposition of her expression and the situation.

“Even after all these years, together, I still find it cute the way you say ‘barn cellar’.” Joyce added a dramatic southern twang to the words, jokingly mocking him.

“Hey!” his tone dripping with mock affront. “I do not sound like that. I barely have any sort of drawl.” He finished with a heavily ironic expression of the word.

Joyce put her hand to her chest, poorly feigning her own appalled look.

“Besides,” he put on a sarcastic tone with an attempt at a British socialite accent, “though I am born and raised in this southern state,” his strong enunciation of the syllables and consonants relieved Joyce of the effort to resist laughing, “at least I am not a maiden of Connecticut, where exceptional diction and elocution are noble traits befitting a woman of her status.” She stared at him, her arms now crossed as she popped her hip and gave him a look of endearing pity.

“You’re lucky I’m already married to you and have a child with you,” she closed the distance between them, Paul still standing nervously by the door.

He knew he could accidentally strike a nerve when they played like this, and he wasn’t sure where he suddenly stood with his wife. He seriously considered running into the storm rather than being embarrassed and ashamed for anything he’d said to her.

She slowly wrapped her arms around him, though he was an inch or two shorter than she was, he was still a stocky and strong, farmer in his mid-twenties; he was barely strained by his wife leaning into him. She looked into his eyes. Morgan had his eyes. The same gray that was a shade shy of black, the color of the clouds above them. The gray she feared that would create storms within them as well.

She kissed his nose and said, “or I’d have to leave my husband to be with you.” They kissed for a moment and just held each other close. The wind increasing outside drew their attention back to the situation. “We’ll be ok. As much as we worry from a normal standpoint, with the faith I have in my heart for our ends, that gives me enough strength to get through each moment before.”

Paul loved how his wife could be so sure, so strong. He depended on her in times like these. He found that meeting Joyce and having their child turned him from such a self-sufficient independent man to someone so fearful. When he would tell her this, she assured him it was his own strength and love that he was feeling, that what he felt was something to be embraced. He wasn’t a coward, he cared. Joyce could always help him see how when he judged himself, that everything would get distorted. He’d been able to realize that compassion for his family is what made him so fearful. He had eventually learned that fear comes with concern for the well-being of someone you love.

“You are the only one I would want to go through any storm with,” she nodded outside with a quick smile, “even these kinds.”

“Thank you.” They held each other close.

They heard Morgan come bounding down the stairs. His was silent in his fear now. Eyes wide and searching for his mother.

Another crack of lightning, thunder sooner. The wind picked up and even Joyce and Paul flinched at the suddenness of a subsequent flash and boom.

“Let’s go ahead and get settled below.” Paul said, taking charge when they all found each other frozen in shock. He scooped up the boy while Joyce bent and heaved the cellar door open. Paul quickly went down the stairs with Morgan. She stood back up and looked out the window one last time; then she hastened down the stairs when the first window shattered. Some of the shards fell in before she’d closed the door. She latched it, hunkered down, gave Paul a look, and his heart quickened. But his steely affect gave no signs. Joyce leaned into her husband, gripping his arm. Morgan nestled between them. The three huddled in hope.

They would stay there for as along as it took; which came quicker than they thought it would. The sound of things flying around the house, window after window shattering, it all seemed to have reached its peak. With their hearts pounding in their chests, the space around them seemed to thrum with its own heartbeat.

Several minutes later, after the sounds above had ceased and they could unclench from their grasps on each other, Paul went to the stairs, undid the latch, and pushed on the door. After a few grunts, he gestured for help. Joyce hurried over and the two heaved the door open, finding that the large, oak dining table had been tossed on its side and splintered, part of it blown over the door.

“Stay here.” Joyce said to Morgan. He didn’t like them leaving him, but he was also afraid to leave his spot.

Joyce and Paul walked around the house, assessing. No structural damage from what they could see. Just windows blown out and broken items that hadn’t been secured.

“All things that can be replaced.” Joyce said, squeezing Paul’s hand interlocked with hers.

They climbed the stairs to their son’s room and the guest room. No cracks in the walls, ceiling looked ok. Again, just the windows, furniture, and toys strewn about.

They returned to Morgan.

“Come on. We’re going outside. Can you help me check the barn?” Paul said to his son, holding his hand out to him in the cellar. The boy scampered out, eager to be with his parents.

Joyce was holding the door open for the two to follow her. The barn had minor damage; part of the roof broken by small branches broken off of the looming oak. Kin of the oak that had been used to make the table that now lay in pieces.

Besides smaller trees fallen around the yard and dotted around the space that filled the land from their home to the road, there were no huge losses.

The wheat appeared roughed up but salvageable. It was the end of harvest anyway.

They slowly walked together into the barn, listening for any creaks or cracks that would indicate potential falling debris from unseen damage.

The cows and horses were all alive. The tools were mostly secured to the walls, so only smaller hand tools, hay and straw covered the area.

“Look!” Morgan shouted, pointing at something brown amidst a hay pile close to them. His startled parents darted to him. They could see he was uncovering his saddle. “I’m glad this is ok.” They were relieved for him to finally react and comment on the situation. In his six years, Morgan hadn’t had to experience this. They hoped it would be the only one.

Paul hung up the saddle on a nearby hook at the request of his son. He’d check on the animals more closely tonight and clean up their immediate area. The rest of this would wait until tomorrow. Right now, the house needed the immediate attention.

They exited the barn and headed back toward the house.

“No!” Morgan screamed out and he went running toward the space below the kitchen window. “It’s all gone!” Joyce tilted her head, pained by her son’s sadness. “We worked so hard.” He dropped to his knees. She was surprised that this is when he started to cry. Paul and Joyce knelt on either side of him.

“Don’t worry. We’re all safe, that’s what matters.” Joyce pulled her son into her.

“We’ll just plant more. It will be ok.” Paul patted his son on the back.

“But what if they get ruined too?” Morgan sobbed out.

“Well then,” Paul said, “we’ll plant even more. That’s what we do, we persevere.”

“Perserver?” Morgan questioned.

“Persevere,” Paul corrected, smiling, “it means,” he thought for a moment on how to explain it and continued, “it means, with hope and hard work, we will always get up from what hurts us, to come back stronger. Maybe our hope and hard work can get the marigolds to be as tall as your mom; it worked with the sunflowers. Always hope.” Paul smiled at Joyce. “Through the end.” He added as he stared into his wife’s eyes. He watched a shadow cross her pale blue eyes, like she knew something so heartbreaking that the thought of it dimmed the light in her soul.

“Through the end.” She said.