I still don't know what the sweet scent comes from but I die a little death every time I catch it.
My husband and I have mixed drinks and taken them out to the patio. The girls are in bed, or supposed to be. I catch their silhouettes, their brambled hair, in sheets of black against a yellow light through my bedroom window. The evening is nearly over and a wind is gathering in the west. I pull my wrap tight around me, tuck it underneath my toes. I sip my drink that tastes of last summer, the sweet tequila that's been untouched since August.
He gets a phone call.
I hear tiny feet bounding up and down the hall. Inside, the children are making mischief, like survivors in a house without adults. Above me the great old tree is hushing in the wind. My husband's voice is a background murmur as I tip my head to the violet sky and watch the bats, watch the leaves, watch the wind.
Far in the southwest cracks one spectacular bolt of lighting.
Earlier that day I'd realized that the stories I tell myself about everything going right one day are as hurtful as the stories I tell myself about everything going wrong. This epiphany settles friendly in my chest, beneath the burn of tequila and the chill of the summer storm. Nothing goes my way is a thought I've learned to stop, but its companion lie is, when I achieve this, everything will be circus and peonies and now, I realize that isn't true.
I am happy now.
I will fall asleep, a little drunk, in clean sheets next to my husband and I will know, or maybe remember, that everything my happiness needs is contained right here and now.
Every last thing.
After the bolt I watch the same spot in the sky for five minutes, ten, but nothing comes. Then we see it, a flickering light in the north, its answering thunder. Through the screen I tell Ayla to sleep in my bed, where she can burrow and hear the storm and her father's voice.
My husband and I sit on the patio as the storm approaches and settles in above our heads. There are bone-clean fingers of white lightning in the west and echoing fairy lights in clouds to the north. The wind rushes and I close my eyes and with every part of me, feel it in my hair. I know it's a little dangerous but maybe that is why it feels so good, why I feel so alive, why these storms seem to enter into my body and tingle in my veins, in my marrow where lately I have come to picture combs of clean new honey.
It is a beautiful storm. The moment it becomes full dark, it begins to rain. I stand in the garage door for just another moment and close my eyes, breathe in the scent. The atmosphere is full, a charged presence like spirit or heart and it fills me up, and I am full.
Change is coming, like a quickening storm.
I am happiest in in-betweens and this is why I want to see the world.
It makes me feel more alive.
"...everything my happiness needs is contained right here and now."ReplyDelete
I think you and I are soul sisters of a sort. This is a conversation I have with myself often. Sometimes the ability to dream and create robs me of the moment. Right now. Right now. Right now. Beautiful.
Except for the tequila. That makes me all handsy.
This needs to be published somewhere, somewhere where others will have the privilege of reading it. Send it out.ReplyDelete
That picture of the storm is stunning, almost as stunning as your way with words. I'm a fan.ReplyDelete
Pam Houston is following you on Twitter. Pam. Houston.ReplyDelete
Everything is starting to turn in your favor...
Everything's coming up Brittany!ReplyDelete
Thank you, everyone.ReplyDelete
My native Colorado solarplexus ached for those frequent afternoon thunderstorms reading this. What is it about those epic lightning shows? This is a gorgeous piece of writing.ReplyDelete
I really liked this bit too:
Earlier that day I'd realized that the stories I tell myself about everything going right one day are as hurtful as the stories I tell myself about everything going wrong.
Gah, so true.
I agree with Elizabeth. Send her out there...ReplyDelete
I think you may be my favorite writer I've read so far. And, coming from a guy with almost three degrees in literature, that's saying something.ReplyDelete
Shut up, Matthew, you are making me cry.ReplyDelete
I am late to this party, but I'm reading it just after a heckuva storm whipped its way through the southeastern parts of Denver. I can still smell the rain, but my soul feels it too. I'm so happy to have read this while sitting in Colorado, versus pining for it from Austin. And I'm not ashamed to say in front of all these people that your writing makes my heart sing. And, I think you should check out this post from Jennifer Luitwieler if you haven't already: http://jenniferluitwieler.com/2012/06/04/if-is-the-word/ReplyDelete