of tin roofs and thunderstorms

Tonight, the sky fills my eyes with the brightest flashes of lightning.  With every deep, deliberate roll of thunder it seems to be clearing its throat, begging for attention.  A tin roof has always been the perfect stage for raindrops to play, and I find myself somehow lying in bed with an orchestra seat.  Yielding to the great storm's majesty, I shut my book and switch off the lamp.  Its soft glow flees slowly from my room.  The evening takes over.

The night, already mysterious, becomes almost magical in a summer thunderstorm, as if somewhere in the hills a young magician had stumbled upon his father's workshop.  I always enjoy the results of his fortunate discovery, the blinding cracks of lightning, the thunder's earth-trembling response.  Each exchange instills in me both fear and wonder, and I am a little girl again.  Tonight, the gentle rain is my mother.  She sings me a lullaby that only the two of us know, and at once we are dancing - she on the rooftop and I in half-dreaming.  She is a far better dancer than I but applauds with every twirl and leap I attempt.  She takes a final bow and her hand covers my face to coax my stubborn eyes to close.  Somewhere in the hills, the little magician must have heard her song and drifted off.  Perhaps later, his father came in and found him there sleeping, his little fingers still clutching his toys.  As he walked to his workshop that night he had imagined how he would scold the boy, how he would punish his childish rebellion.  Now he only looked down at his little son and wondered of his dreams, scooping him up in his arms to carry him back to his safe, warm room.

The night settles in, the earth becomes still.  In the morning, sunlight will dry the traces of the evening's masterpiece.  I will rise to receive the gift of another living day, and somewhere in the hills, the little magician will plan his next performance.