Steady

The rain started gently,
welcomed on that hot, dry day.
When we heard thunder in the distance,
our parents called us inside
where I sat at the window,
cozy,
and watched the trees begin to shutter,
the clouds and lightening roll in.
“To the basement,” Dad commanded
when the sky turned suddenly green.
A deafening wind and hail hammered the house
and all went black.
“Stay away from the windows,”
Dad shouted above the roar.
He put batteries that he had stashed away
for just such an emergency
into the transistor radio.
We all huddled around him
as he fiddled with the dials.

As the world turned inside out,
this man,
often distant,
rarely demonstrative in his love for us,
but always steady,
became the rock we all clung to.
We were afraid, yes,
but believed beyond reason
that he could always keep us safe.
This was, of course,
a few years before he began to get sick.

The storm passed eventually.
We went upstairs then out
to explore downed branches,
the exhausted sky.
I suppose Dad took the batteries out
and put them away,
then methodically surveyed
the condition of the house,
scattered shingles,
hail damage that would need repairing.
I imagine that he was shaken,
but I do not know.
He would never have spoken of that
with me.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith