Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Rain Delay on Memory Lane

Collin

It was Saturday morning, and the clouds were already picking a fight with the sun.

The air felt heavy, like it couldn't decide whether to hang on to the last thread of summer or finally give in and weep. The humidity curled around everything, cheerful and cruel and I was already slick with it before the coffee even finished brewing.

I'd been up since just after five, standing barefoot in the kitchen with my mom, cracking eggs and browning sausage while Dolly Parton sang low on the radio. She moved with ease and rhythm, barefoot like me, her hair in a loose braid, eyes still soft from sleep but focused. We didn't talk much, didn't need to. We were used to these kinds of mornings - the quiet, loaded ones. The ones where everything important was said without saying anything at all.

Through the window, I could see the card tables stacked in the back of Dad's pickup. Our folding chairs leaned against the side of the house. Bins of my childhood life sat on the porch, labeled in sharpie: softball stuff, VHS tapes, records + stationary, random crap I'll cry over later.

The door creaked open behind me.

I glanced back to see Dad and Billie already dressed, both with steaming mugs of coffee in hand. Billie was in the same jeans he'd worn yesterday, a plain white long sleeve tee, and the baseball cap he borrowed from my dad after burning the top of his ears on Thursday. The two of them looked... weirdly in sync. Billie sat at the end of the table like he belonged there, arms resting on the wood like he'd done it a hundred times.

"Morning," I muttered.

Dad nodded. Billie gave me a tired grin. "Your dad was telling me about the time you hit a line drive into Coach Reynolds' truck window."

I groaned, slapping a spatula against the skillet. "That was freshman year. I still maintain it was parked too close."

Dad sipped his coffee, unreadable. "You aimed it."

Billie smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I believe it."

Mom chuckled behind me, flipping a biscuit pan with practiced grace. "She always had that arm."

I glanced at the clock - 5:48 a.m. The rain hadn't started yet. That felt like something.

"You boys gonna help after breakfast?" my mom asked, tossing the question toward them like a challenge.

"Of course," Dad said.

"Wouldn't miss it," Billie replied, voice scratchy with sleep but solid.

I slid plates onto the table one by one, and Billie reached out to help without me asking. Dad noticed. Didn't say anything. But his eyes followed it. Every quiet gesture. Every little word.

They were still circling each other, him and Billie. Two wary dogs, learning each other's weight and bite. But something had shifted over the last two days. My dad had been working him like a ranch hand - fixing the mower, organizing the toolshed, even hauling out the old wood from behind the barn. Billie never complained. Just kept showing up. Kept saying "yes sir." Kept staying out of trouble.

We all sat down around the table, forks clinking against plates, steam rising from the food, my mom humming under her breath.

It didn't look like rain yet.

Maybe we'd get lucky. Maybe we wouldn't.

But it felt like something was coming either way.

And this - this quiet table, this coffee, this breakfast at the crack of dawn, felt like the calm before it did.