The Weight of the Evening

It is thundering without rain.

 The silence between the claps is deafening.

 

The trees are still, and the birds have flown to the ground.

 

The air is heavy with heat and humidity.

 The sky grumbles, mumbles, and still, I see no light.

I feel the pressure of the weather change in the circumference of my head.

 The weight of the evening is like the grip of grief around my heart.

Now I smell it—that scent of rain. 

It’s in the air, but the drops still hang high above, waiting. 

The sky has darkened. 

The thunder continues its ornery grumbling.

I hold my breath. 

I watch the trees for movement, scan the sky for that tell-tale streak of light that would mean it’s time to step away from the window.

Suddenly, I think of my great-grandmother. 

She used to sew by the window, scissors in hand, when lightning struck. 

The bolt went through her and out the scissors. I have them on my desk now—a family memento that has never needed sharpening since that day.