Chapter 7
A sudden,
violent thunderstorm rolled in during the middle of July,
turning the afternoon sky a bruised,
angry purple.
I was sitting on the back porch,
watching the wind whip the branches of the old oak tree,
when the power abruptly cut out,
plunging the house into a deep,
still silence.
I walked through the dark rooms,
fetching the emergency flashlights from the kitchen drawer,
and lighting a few thick,
white candles on the dining room table.
The rain pounded against the roof like a drum,
and the thunder rattled the window frames,
but I did not feel afraid,
only incredibly small in the face of nature's power.
My cell phone rang,
the bright screen piercing the gloom,
and I saw Trevor's name flashing urgently.
He was calling to check on me,
his voice tense with genuine concern,
asking if the old roof was holding up against the deluge.
I assured him I was perfectly fine,
that I had candles burning,
and that I was actually enjoying the dramatic display outside.
He insisted on coming over anyway,
saying he had some heavy-duty battery lanterns,
and that he didn't want me sitting alone in the dark.
Thirty minutes later,
he arrived,
soaking wet and shivering,
carrying two large lanterns and a thermos of hot coffee.
We sat at the dining room table,
illuminated by the flickering candlelight,
listening to the storm rage against the siding.
It felt like a camping trip,
a small,
intimate adventure inside the walls of the house he grew up in.
He poured the coffee,
the rich aroma filling the damp air,
and we talked about the past without the usual,
heavy baggage.
He asked me about his childhood,
about what he was like as a little boy,
before the world had taught him to be so guarded and ambitious.
I told him stories about his obsession with building blocks,
how he would cry if a tower fell,
but would always immediately start rebuilding it.
He laughed quietly,
staring into the flame of the nearest candle,
and he said he guessed he was still doing exactly that.
Rebuilding the tower,
he murmured,
only this time,
he was trying to make sure the foundation was actually solid.
I reached across the table,
and I placed my hand over his,
feeling the rough calluses he had developed from his volunteer work.
I told him the foundation was the most important part,
and that I was proud of the careful,
honest work he was putting into it.
The storm raged on for hours,
but inside the house,
it was warm,
and peaceful,
and deeply comforting.
We were a mother and a son,
stripped of our illusions,
weathering the storm together,
and finding strength in our renewed,
honest connection.
When the power finally flickered back on,
flooding the room with harsh,
artificial light,
we both blinked,
reluctant to break the spell of the storm.
He blew out the candles,
May you like
and we cleaned up the table,
but the warmth of that conversation lingered long after he left.
