![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Jul. 11th, 2006
A storm, memory
Jul. 11th, 2006 02:30 pmCambridge, MA. 2:25 pm, July 11.
As I open the door of the aging sage-green refrigerator, a gust of wind slides in the back kitchen window. Thunder begins to rumble off to the west. A storm slowly meanders its way inland from the coast, threatening to dump rain but never quite succeeding.
Summer thunderstorms return me to my youth. Running outside in eerie yellow storm light, lying in the rain ditches allowing the water to soak me to the bone. Towering gray clouds, tornado-clipped oak trees. Cars slowly winding up Dead Man's Hill, occupants hurrying home to hide inside and look out front windows at the sheets of water washing the pavement.
I am reminded, in a quick rustling whirr, why I have chosen to move back to the east coast. I long for snowstorms: curling up in the night with a book and my lover; waking in the crisp light to make snow angels, cross country ski, and shovel the driveway.
As I open the door of the aging sage-green refrigerator, a gust of wind slides in the back kitchen window. Thunder begins to rumble off to the west. A storm slowly meanders its way inland from the coast, threatening to dump rain but never quite succeeding.
Summer thunderstorms return me to my youth. Running outside in eerie yellow storm light, lying in the rain ditches allowing the water to soak me to the bone. Towering gray clouds, tornado-clipped oak trees. Cars slowly winding up Dead Man's Hill, occupants hurrying home to hide inside and look out front windows at the sheets of water washing the pavement.
I am reminded, in a quick rustling whirr, why I have chosen to move back to the east coast. I long for snowstorms: curling up in the night with a book and my lover; waking in the crisp light to make snow angels, cross country ski, and shovel the driveway.