Thursday, July 26

the thunderstorms


the boys earlier today

From where I sit, ensconced deep in the blue chair, the baby nestled warm and heavy against me, grabbing my arm with his little hands in case I get away, I can see through a dark hallway into the lit kitchen where Tim is making dinner. He passes into the light and then away out of sight, browning potatoes and slicing avocado and cooking pork chops. It is like he exists in a bright land at the other end of the house. The room I sit in is without lights, the ceiling beams dark and enclosing, and the thunderstorm rages against the window screens. One red geranium on the porch glows with an intensity almost shocking in its redness, like blood against the dark and green of the forest. The lightning flashes and we nestle in to listen.