This afternoon we had a thunderstorm.

The rain tumbled out of the sky like a river, and thunder cracked over the roof. Cool air from high above got caught up in the rush of things and fell to earth. Hot and cold air stumbled over each other and mixed together and shifted, ‘til the wind picked up and thrummed its way over the yard.

The storm rough-housed a little with the tree branches and the power lines, the raspberry canes, the tomato plants, with every door in the house.

I unplugged the radio and the television and wrote, up in the attic. I waited it out. My mother ran around outside, soaked to the bone, shoving buckets under the drain spouts, collecting the water for her garden from the roof. She was happy.

When the storm passed it was like a fever breaking. The heat we’ve been having for too many days softened from scorching to something that’s been easier to breathe.

I needed that, so badly. So did the raspberries and tomatoes. It hasn’t rained in just long enough that nobody noticed that anything was missing. But the grass was turning brown.

Sometimes the sky forgets to rain, but I think, maybe… nothing ever stays the same for long.