The Storm

I raise my face to the sky as the icy rain plunges to the ground. I close my eyes and revel in the cold shower, feeling the water droplets seeping into my blouse. The shirt soon clings to me in a frigid embrace and I raise my hands to catch any errant drops.  I wish to be soaked, cleansed of all of my sins and all of his. 

My last sight of him was in his doorway, illuminated by the shockingly violent flash of lightning.  I pray for the rain to erase the memory, to erode the loose gravel images of our last months together. I imagine the sediment running off me in rivulets and piling up in the puddles at my feet. 

His look of surprise had mirrored mine, only barely preceded by the image of another behind him in the apartment, partially clothed in a mixture of guilt and arrogance. I worry that the lightning emblazoned the image of them on my retinas, forever shadowing what I could see with my eyes open or closed. I need to scour myself of the events of tonight. 

I open my eyes to let the rain wash them clean, too. I open my mouth to allow the relentless drops to coat my tongue and dribble into my throat.

For an instant, I imagine how one might drown in the rain, standing in the middle of the street. I just had to allow my throat to open and let the water fill my lungs. I could stand in the tsunami and force my muscles to relax as the water takes over, replacing what is empty and rendering it new.

A swift wind thwarts my drowning.  It takes my breath away with it and deposits saturated leaves in my hair and on my forehead. The wind kicks up and the branches of nearby trees dance and point.  I hear the tinny music of the water in the gutters of a nearby house. I wish to be small enough to ride the rivulets down the eaves and into the ground. I wish to become one with the Earth and disappear.

A crack of thunder reverberates through the clouds and makes my insides tremble. The thunder is a friend and gives my tumultuous thoughts a voice. It helps to quell the questions that I did not need to ask before tonight. Where will I live? What will I do? Where can I hide?

I glance into my water-laden bag and see the smeared letters on my pregnancy test box. The lightning illuminates the soaked box and a brief glint of metal underneath, steam rising and mixing with the surrounding fog. 

I imagine the night how it should have been. The dinner on the table, the test in a wrapped box, our dry hands held tightly, only our eyes wet from the happy tears. I allowed myself a glimpse into a joyful future. Surely the news would have filled him with joy.  He would have been compelled to propose on the spot. We would have had a beautiful wedding, small and quaint, and I would wear white, even if my growing belly was visible under the satin. We would be an embodied cliché, living happily ever after, and the sun would shine every damn day.

No one predicted the flash flood of emotions, anger, revenge. No meteorologist saw it coming. The storm of the century occurred on a nondescript Tuesday evening. 

My rage surfaces again, refusing to be cooled by the insistent deluge. I must control it, if not for me, then for the baby inside of me.  I know it’s in there. I can feel it. Every woman surely knows when she’s pregnant, and I know I am.  Nothing can change that. No rain can wash that away.  It has taken root and it is why I will be fine.   It is why I will go on, and find the will to live. It will be a baby born of the storm, and it will be solid. 

I consider seeking shelter, as the winds are howling and the rain is coming in horizontal torrents. It is becoming difficult to keep my footing, but I am not yet washed clean. I am not yet ready to move ahead with my life in the sun. I must stay here until it is over. I must accept all that the storm is teaching me. I must accept all the water that it sends my way.  It is meant for me and I for it. I am the storm. 

My mind again wanders to him. I imagine that will keep happening, though I want to forget now. We had a whirlwind romance, driven a bit more by me, I suppose. No one should have a workplace affair.  Many warned me against it, but I couldn’t resist. He was so kind and handsome and irresistible, and I knew right away that he felt the same way about me.  Yes, we had to sneak around a bit as he had not yet broken up with his wife, but I knew it was coming. He told me he could not stay away from me.  He told me I was special, and I believed him happily. He was my shelter in the storm, and I his.  Ironic how it all had to end.  My shelter is gone, and I am alone in the rain, but I am still standing.

He is not.  

Another flash of lightning and another clap of thunder, and more icy raindrops.  The remains of the sinners lie unrepentant in the puddles. I can see their blood oozing down into the grass now. I know that that, too, will help the grass to grow. I am the giver of life and I am she who takes it away. He did not know the storm he invited in. He was not prepared for me.  He would not have been able to withstand nature’s fury like I am.  He could not withstand my fury. 

I hear the faint sound of sirens and I realize that my time in the storm has come to an end. I take one last look at their broken bodies and I place my hands over my belly.  I will keep going. I will survive. The sun will rise again.