Little Stormcloud

                   Little Stormcloud


         It wasn't really something I could deny. It was true, and a part of me. It factored into the person I became, even if it was so long ago and totally not who I am now. But to hear it from your mouth...

         I thought I had dealt with it. And mostly I have. But sometimes, intense reminders come out of the blue and stab me in the gut when I'm not insulated against my memory.

         You joked when I got to the airport about having to wait in the lobby watching daytime TV and all those trailer trash people. So, what should have been a joyous meeting was spoiled instantly, and sorry that I didn't immediately tell you why, but I was too upset.

         You knew I was poor as a kid, but I guess you didn't know we lived in a trailer. In a trailer park. I knew some of those TV types that everyone maligns, and I can't deny that they're out there. When I was little, the trailer people would call me "Little Stormcloud" when I got into my sulking moods. You know what mood I refer to - you're seeing it now.

         Yet you don't realize how many decent folk are out there, living in trailers. Some can't afford a house. Most believe as I do: that a trailer is the same as a house, not at all worse despite being somewhat more confined. Naive as my mother was, she was still a sweet woman who wouldn't argue with a soul. Certainly she wouldn't speak disrespectfully of someone else in public or cheer on crass behavior.

         For that split second you came down from the pedestal I put you on, to join the base crowd jeering at people like my mother just because of where they live. People like me, just because of where I was born. You like who I am now; well, where did you expect I grew up? I should be proof that it doesn't take braces and cherry brick walls for a kid to succeed.


         We drove to my house in silence. I had prepared it for you, too. Spectacularly clean. Roses in a vase by your side of my long-waiting bed. To waste, I suppose. Dinner waited only to be warmed, and though the food was great, it was hardly enjoyed as we were silent. That's when I told you about my trailer park. I could see the apology in your eyes, and of course I know you didn't mean to slight me or my mother. Or even decent folk, but you bought into the terms that every ignorant plebe uses.

         And it hurt, because I had really thought you better than that. It stung, that's all. Though I know you didn't mean it, still you made me feel betrayed. Time will fix this, I know, but somehow I can't just bring myself to go hug you. I won't pretend to be okay, though we both wish I would. Damn, and this was our night alone, too. Ruined by misfortune of a few clumsy words spoken in jest to ease our reunion. How fickle fate can be.

         I'll get over this as soon as I can, babe. But it's bedtime and I just can't bring myself to crawl in next to you. I'd die not to hold you, yet you know I need more room to heal myself. You should take the bed and I'll try my pull-out couch. I lit you a candle in there. I'll go shower and hope you understand. We'll kiss in the morning and all will be well again.


         I am clean from shower water, and don't want to wake you. I know my way around in the dark though, so I turn out the bathroom light that has killed my night vision anyway. By memory and feel I maneuver to my bedroom door before I remember that's not where I wanted to go.

         I stop and turn to my living room. The couch is out and ready for me, so it's just a matter of not banging my shins on the sides. I crawl under the covers and wonder at how many pillows are here. But no, that's a body. Your body. You had left me the bed and chosen the pull-out for yourself. Now you roll to me and bury your head in my shoulder. A wetness there is probably no longer a tear, but a sniffled nose.

         I cannot maintain this distance any longer. I hold you in my arms tightly, and all is as it should have been from the first. You start to form a sentence: "I-"
         But I stop you with a sudden kiss. "I know, babe. Come here."

         You accept my invitation. Your legs snake in between mine, and our pose of comfort turns quickly into one of hurried passion. Afterwards we rest together, giggling about how we're guesting in my living room while an empty bed rests behind the far door.

         It's storming out, but every lightning strike shows silver linings around the edges of the cumulo-nimbus clouds. The remedy for any careless slip is a heavy dose of caring.
         In the dark we express our care again and again.