I Am A Child of the Wind, Part 5

Midwest summers under a hot sun,

rolling in the grass, dandelions held under

chins to see who liked butter (a reflection proved it).

Thirty miles south of Chicago, in front of our home, we played

barefoot in the blacktop streets, with

heat-softened tar squishing under toes.

I loved that feeling; it didn't burn our feet,

it caressed them.

~~I used a tree across the street for a weather predictor.

If its leaves were turned up,

the white side showing, a storm was coming.~~

We played cops and robbers on our bikes,

roller-skated, climbed trees, and played softball, but

when the rain came, we changed quickly into

our swimsuits and returned to play in the rain.

Fat, juicy raindrops splattered us,

cooling our bodies as we

chased each other in the summer rain -

until the thunderheads grew, boiling up

under the hot afternoon sun, building and

stretching upward to the troposphere, billowing

darkly, threatening our playtime and our homes -

darkening into enormous puffs of cottony cumulonimbus

clouds, and finally, giant anvils in the sky.

**

We grew accustomed to warnings: storm watch,

then a tornado watch, and finally, a tornado warning.

So many warnings throughout the humid summers,

that we ignored them.

Yet, we were trained young to know what to

watch for - the anvil cloud; if it's lightning, don’t shelter under trees;

get to lower ground in a tornado;

you are safe in a car in an electrical storm,

but don’t touch metal.

Taught young, we paid attention.

We knew when to go home.

**

My friend and I played in the rain in our

swimsuits at her house's far end of our block.

Suddenly, the air cooled, and the wind roared.

The sky turned black - with no warning.

Looking around, my friend and her siblings had disappeared,

had run into their house, leaving me outside, forgotten.

Impossible to get home at the other end of the block;

knowing it was unsafe to run home in an electrical storm,

I rushed to their back porch.

The storm raged as I banged on the door.

Manners prevented me from entering their home

without permission from their mother.

Flattened against the metal back porch door, shouting for help,

LET ME IN!

The black sky lit up white as a

surge of lightning creased the sky and

struck the tree near the porch, splitting it in half, in a loud explosio.;

I screamed in terror.

Home, I should be home. Understanding

the storm was overpowering, I knew that

safety meant staying put.

Eight-year-old wisdom, but my body

was consumed in abject fear; I was screaming.

**

A hand jetted out from the door,

grabbed my shoulder and yanked me inside.

My friend’s mom had pulled me inside to safety,

then shepherded me to their dirt-floor basement.

As violence swirled above, we watched, safe, below ground.

Lightning streaks strobed around us, while

rain slammed the window pane.

I have no memory of going home, or of

explaining to my mother about the ferocious storm

that nearly killed her youngest child.

She must have believed me safe inside

my friend’s house.

~All the kids had a free run of the neighborhood,

in total safety years ag, knowing our boundaries

and our curfew times.~

Of course, her baby was safe at her friend's.