Picking Up Roots

A burst of lighting was followed by thunder that shook the air and rattled the glasses on the countertop. A thick gray blanket now covered the high blue sky. The water moved in sheets across the cove, coming towards the small cottage. When it arrived, it slammed against the thin windows and rattled the roof.

The children huddled around the wood stove, seeking the safety of its warmth. The gave yips of restrained fear as another flash of lightning cut through the room and the lights went out. When the crack of thunder crashed against their eardrums they started to cry. Then the wind howled and the branches of the trees scratched against the windows, trying to get in.

Their parents tried to calm them with soft words and gentle caresses, but even they felt the wrath of Nature as the white-capped waves battered the rocks below the cottage. They looked out entranced and afraid.

In time the sky began to grow light, and the family felt relief just as another flash brought a burst that shook the foundation of the cottage. They were in the storm’s eye.

The rain exploded on the roof top and the branches battered the windows. The wind howled in mourning, sending shivers up their spines. Father put another log on the fire and they huddled closer to its warmth, backs to the madness of the outside world.

It was over in an instant. The thunder became a distant rumble as the wind and rain died down. Drops of water fell in intermittent patterns from branches returned to stiff attention.

They stepped outside to a blue sky. The damp heaviness of the air gone with the gray blanket, allowing them all to breathe in relief, and laugh at how foolish it was to feel fear.

He sat back relaxed on his stool, she bent in towards the bar, curled around her drink. They looked straight ahead, then looked at each other, shy smiles breaking across their faces.

She took a sip from her drink. “There’s too much ice, not enough of the good stuff.”

“That’s why you have to drink it like this,” he held up his short glass of clear liquid, “nothing to get in the way of the goodness.”

She smiled at him. He wanted to reach out, wrap her up and squeeze. He wanted to feel her close to him. He remained hunched on his stool.

“We should do this more often,” he suggested.

“I can’t believe it’s taken us this long,” her smile clawed at his heart.

His phone vibrated and a green message flashed across the screen. He frowned down at it.

“I hate that.”

“What?”

“That look that comes over your face when the phone vibrates.”

“It’s nothing. It’s not bad.”

“It’s not nothing,” she reached out and touched his hand, “I wish I could help you.”

“You do. This helps,” he swung his arm out to take in the bar, “it keeps me relaxed.”

She smiled, but he could see the doubt in her eyes. It passed and was replaced by want. He felt something warm in his chest.

“I have to go soon.”

“I know,” she smiled. He felt helpless.

“Can we do this again?”

“If you’ll allow it, I’d love to.”

“Yes, please.”

They finished their drinks and he left cash on the bar.

Rain punished the pavement. He thought about how he’d have to run.

“Do you want a ride?” she asked.

“Are you sure you should drive?”

“Maybe not yet.”

“Good, don’t.”

They pushed through the doors, and headed out into the storm.

Flames had always brought him a calm place to dream. They would slow his mind and allow him to see his future. These flames were different, while still a calming influence, they contained only memories, and the memories were full of an all-consuming pain.

Mesmerized, he stared with blank eyes as the flames licked at the tinder in front of him. The good, hard oak crackled and snapped in the heat. It was hot too. The heat was almost uncomfortable, but the dark night outside the circle of flame was cold, so he leaned in closer, hungry for the fire’s warmth.

He’d started to gather fuel in the early afternoon. It hadn’t been difficult. He’d lit the match, feeling the satisfaction of the flame’s catching just as the sun sank behind the mountains.

Since childhood, he’d always liked a good fire. He used to nap with his father in front of the hearth in their living room. As a college student, he had read many a book in front of those same flames.

Now, he sat with a glass of good whiskey watching as papers curled in around the heat before turning to ash and the flames turned the wood to charred embers. He thought of nothing; he thought of everything as the flames danced across his face.

Life twisted in the flames, the life he had wanted burned somewhere in their orange glow. The life he had lived fueled them. He sought the life he would lead in their light.

When the windows of the second floor blew out, the crowd across the street gasped. He took a sip of the whiskey and pulled his robe tighter around him. He leaned further back in the lawn chair and thought about how pleasant it might be to close his eyes.