After an early supper we took Sam out for a walk around the
neighborhood. By the time we got to the corner we could hear a faint
rumble. Was it comfortably distant? We continued to the intersection by
the University, and there it seemed louder, so instead of following our
usual evening route, we took a shorter one. The thunder grew louder,
closer, and we quickened our pace. Sam hurried with us, but only to
match us, not out of worry about the coming storm.
We got home
shortly before the downpour. Sam lay panting in the living room, his
eyes shining from the exertion of our hurried trot home.
"I can't help thinking of Molly," I said.
used to set her coat on end. She could feel it before we could hear it,
would make for the "high ground" of her chair or, better yet, upstairs.
Oh! the times we tried to comfort her! Snowman's bed, the highest point
in the house, seemed safer to her, though being in the attic it put her
closer to the sky, the crashing, the flashes.
"You'll think of her every time there's a thunderstorm for the rest of your life," said Pure Luck, a bit gruffly.
my last day in Freeport, I went to visit a church member and drove down
Main Street past the church on my way back to drop off the keys. On the
sidewalk I saw a big dog from behind, a black dog, with white on the
tail tip. I looked at the paws: white, too. And at the crosswalk, just
in front of the church, the dog and her person stopped to cross the
She was beautiful. She could have been Molly, her markings and the weight of her coat were so similar.
She could have been Molly, whole and steady on all four legs.
By the time I got the car around the block, they had disappeared.
The storm this evening passed quickly, the last of the rain pattering enthusiastically while the sun shone, too.
It's a sort of thundershine, the remembering of something lost, the recognition that some times and people and loves in our lives cannot come back yet have the power to appear as sharply as the little storm on the horizon, summoned by the senses.