Tete's Storm

Tete loved a good storm.

I love the booming sound of thunder as it rattles the windows in my house, sending the cats skittering for shelter under the nearest bed. The sound vibrations surge through my body, invigorating the senses and causing the dogs to howl and bark; raising the alarm for the coming onslaught.

The brilliant flashes of lightning, illuminating the desert landscape for miles, cast eerie shadows against pristine, white walls. Ghost-like apparitions dance a frenzied waltz in the clouds as the winds whip tendrils of rain to the ground below. My horses whinny in their stalls, assuring each other they aren't alone in their small world.

The smell of wet dirt, clean and pure like a freshly tilled field, reminds me of summers on the farm with my grandfather. It drizzled on Monday in San Francisco when we buried him. The low clouds overhead drew in moisture from the bay bringing wisps of fog which threaded slowly among the headstones, encircling Tete's grave site like a wreath.

The feather-soft kisses of moisture dewed our cheeks, mixed with tears and then soaked the well-tended lawns. The softly swaying trees sang along with the mourners when the hymns were sung and the sun came out briefly when the priest gave his benediction for Grandpa's departed soul. I know he is at peace.

I love a good storm, too.