The gentle roar of dinner, stock bubbling on the back burner, the snick of the knife slicing through brussels sprouts and the sizzle of lamb searing in cast iron is heightened by the TV going on.
“Hey babe, want to watch Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter?”
Though not fond of dining in front of the TV, it’s storming and the idea of eating on blanket covered laps appeals to her sense of how one should weather a storm.
“Sure, but you know it’s going to suck right?”
“You liked the book,” he says.
“Yea, my point. They will have taken all of the fun smart stuff out of it. But why not?”
“Sweet…” he says.
It is the last word she would hear him speak and has since pondered it often, sometimes cradling it next to her heart as if he had been calling her sweet, other times hearing it true, a substitute for the word awesome and when loneliest pretending it is the beginning of a sentence she will someday hear completed.
They had prepared for the storm with candles and canned food and like others thought nature knowable, a white swirl against a blue screen. What was once awe inspiring had been reduced to the mundane until She stepped forth from the eye of a thousand mile storm real, glorious and terrible spilling her disdain and rage across the planet with a wave of ice. Those caught remain still, a permanent reminder of true power and the foolishness of forgetting.
Now She sits in middle of what was once the Atlantic Ocean re-crafting the world and those of us left in this new world do all that we can to appease her raging mind and wounded heart. But it is not yet enough and every night we close our eyes to wild laughter carried on howling wind and pray to the mercy of gods long thought dead and gone.