Loving the Clouds

Chapter 4

There is a special kind of beauty about a storm.

The way the trees and the houses and the debris just give up. Let the storm take them where it wishes. In the way lightning strikes the Earth with deadly grace, lighting up the sky in bursts. Perhaps it is the way the wind pummels the sky, and the ground, it's whine almost like a melody. May it be the way the clouds grew dark as they swelled with power. But maybe, it just was the idea of it.

I witnessed two storms one night. One was beautiful. The other was stoic. Sure, the other held a degree of beauty, but it took on a more haunting form. The kind that chilled the bone, and echoed in your mind. A lot like the cold.

The first one started at 6:05 pm, when the sun was reaching down to kiss the Earth. It began with a whine just outside my window, the clouds above grey and grumbling. The wind had picked up, I noted. It shook the trees and rattled the branches, sticks and mud ripped from the ground and tossed up into a midnight sky. I was sprawled against the perch at my window pane, my chin resting on my arms as I watched the boiling storm. I could taste the electricity crackling in the air. It was going to be a big storm, my eyes dancing with adrenaline.

It was just barely two hours later, at 8:11 pm, that I saw the other storm. By now, the clouds had opened up and rained down on the world, a furious torrent of bullets striking the grass. The sky was black as a raven's feather. Partly because of the lack of sun, partly because of the clouds. There were neither stars nor moon tonight. If there were, you wouldn't be able to tell. The clouds were black and forbidding, the rain chasing animals back into the comfort of their homes. Thunder boomed like a drum and shook the house. Not a strike of lightning yet, but it was not far off.

Then was when I caught sight of the second storm. It was across my street, a flicker of movement. I would have dismissed it as a trick of the eye, if it was not for the flash of blue and red that caught my attention. A figure had stumbled onto the driveway, feet losing traction and throwing him to the ground. A red jacket and blue jeans skidded to the street, still facing the open door. A tall, looming shadow took up the doorway, it was too far away for my eyes to make out. It appears to be shouting at the boy.

Then it slammed shut. At this, the boy hunched down on the edge of the street, tucking his knees into his chest as his arms wrapped sound them. A mop of shaggy, chocolate brown hair buried into his knees. Even from the distance, I could see his shoulders shake with tears.

I do not remember what had come over me at that moment. It was clear I was not exactly thinking straight. Why else would I run out into a lightning storm to a stranger? It was just my body going through the actions. Throw on a coat. Slip on shoes. Open the door. My thoughts stayed on the weeping boy, just out of reach.

He jumped when my hand landed on his shoulder, rising his head with effort. His eyes met mine and my heartbeat fluttered wildly. Though something was wrong. His eyes, once a brilliant cloud grey, were now as dark as the thunder clouds hovering angrily above them. Pain tore across his face, noticeable in every tear that streaked down his cheeks. My heart seized with sadness.

"We must get out of the storm," I whispered, eyes searching his.

He rested his head back on his knees, shaking his head slowly. "What did I do? What did I do?" He mumbled absently.

He could not see reason. I would have to bring him myself.

"Just hold on," I murmur, more to myself then him, "Just hold on . . ."

He does not protest when my arms wrap around his shoulders, not even putting up a fight when I lift him to his feet. His body sags against mine, and I struggle to support his weight. He walks as if the sky rests on his shoulders. It is painful to watch.

After shambling across the street and my front yard, I set him to rest against a old oak tree lying at the edge of my property. It is a childhood memory, bringing back the adventures I played out under its giant-like limbs. It brought a sense of comfort, and with it, warmth. The boy's groan brings back my attention.

With only a small hesitation, I lean against the boy, his shoulder brushing mine. Instantly, he presses against me, eager for the heat I provide. It is a cold night made worse with the storm. The tree does little to shelter us, and I welcome his warm body. I shiver, but not with cold.

He speaks. "My name is Everett."

His voice is cracked and sad, weary from exhaustion. It is laced with disappointment, not shock as I had expected from the scene I witnessed. This has happened before, if not in some other form. It is not new. And this makes me sad. How many other times has he had to sleep with only the blanket of the sky for warmth?

"Hello," I say, "Mine's Robin."

"Robin," he murmurs quietly, staring into the storm, "Like a bird."

I let out a small laugh, "Yes, like the bird."

A half-hearted smile creeps on his face, my heart soars, "Tell me, little bird, do you ever dream you can fly?"

A flash of blue light ignites the sky, the boom of thunder quick to follow. For a moment, I am transfixed with the arch of white light that snakes down from the sky. Silent, majestic, stoic. It is beautiful.

"Yes," I whisper softly, "I dream of a bird, so small, who soars up into a storm cloud. She feels no fear. She recognizes no pain. She just wants to taste the clouds."

We sit there for a long time and watch the storm. Electricity flashes, rain pelts, wind howling a sorrowful tune, they all blend together. They are one. Together, they are beautiful. Simply strings on a guitar. Each destined to play a different note. Yet this melody was sad. No joy streaked across the clouds. A dark and dismal song, played from a pained heart. I look over at the boy with eyes of the storm, and I think that the two are not too different.

And there I crouch, trapped between two storms, in peace.