In the Pink

Today I was caught, mid mulch sling, in a beautiful, terrifying storm.
Right in the pink of it.
The kind of storm that makes me understand why people make gods of thunder and lightning. The thunder cracks so loud I can feel it in my chest, the lightning flashes so quickly and unpredictably that I half expect to be struck down at any moment.
The great maple trees swagger violently, gracefully, threatening to snap but swooping back up every time like a seiche.

Sitting on an old milk crate and leaning against a wheelbarrow in Carol H's garage, it smells just like Grandma Padalino's. I can think of no better place to watch this storm pass, dominating the landscape and humbling me yet again to the raw power of nature.

No one else is here, but these garage smells and summer smells and rain smells conjure up memories and I am not alone.

Thunder rumbles and cracks and rain beats all around me. I see flashes and the strong wind blows mist onto my perch in the garage.

And then the storm slips away with as little warning as it came. So too do my memories. I take up my wheelbarrow and roll back to the present.