Waking to thunder, I found the morning growing blacker rather than brighter, with rain and a tornado warning accompanying my morning tea. Good morning to you, Mississippi.
Think of my surprise then, getting dressed, looking out the window, to find the sky clearing, the million water droplets sparkling everywhere.
Blue skies on the drive to work. Heavy trees bending to see their reflections in the puddles on the road, stretching curious leafy fingers down to touch my car.
For three hours yesterday, I wrote the essay exam which culminates my course work for the Master of Arts in English. The basement room held a chill like the ninth circle of Dante’s Inferno. My nose dripped. In the wall behind me was the near-constant flush of water through pipes. When I finished, my mind felt like Locke’s tabula rasa; I was jubilant and then sad.
I dislike the inevitable endings of things, the way that, finally, however long you stall in the entryway, time pushes you out and on to some new thing. It’d be easier if you knew what that was.
After the rain this morning, a turtle crossed the road, cautious under the weight of its shell. I saw it in the rearview mirror, head pulled in to hide from my passing car. When I was gone, I’m sure it came out again, took its slow steps to the edge of the pavement, plunged into the jungle of wet red clover, through the ditch.