Lightning

I glanced out the window and saw the moon hiding behind the clouds. Just then, lightning struck. It was expected. I had flicked on the tv earlier today just long enough to see the forecast for tonight. The weatherman predicted the storm the same way I had foreseen the storm inside of me. I think I'm too predictable - so much so that the weather channel knows my secrets, even they have me dialed in.
I don't mind the lightning as I drive, it adds at least some light to the sky that is so dark. It looks almost as if I have driven off the earth into space; the snow, like stars against the black of the air. The lightning mixes with the falling snow in such a way that the quiet ice crystals seem to balance out the sounds of the thunder. The chaos going on in the sky silences the music on the radio, I move my eyes to focus on the yellow lines of the road while I mess with the controls, trying to find a better station. I stop as soon as I hear the last lines of Sorrow by Pink Floyd;

"There's an unceasing wind that blows through this night.
And there's dust in my eyes, that blinds my sight"

I always seem to catch good songs when they're almost over. I hum the last guitar chords as the song falls away from my ears, commercials babble and I drown them out. I almost feel upset when it's over, the familiarity of the song brought me comfort. I need something to console me, to protect me tonight. I've never been so scared in my life. That's probably untrue, because I can't even recollect any thoughts of my life at this moment. I chew on my bottom lip, I just wish this wasn't happening. That's not true, either. I need to do this, this is who I am and there has to be a reason I couldn't shake this before.

I have finally gotten away from it completely and here I am, chasing after it once again.
The music starts up again and this time it's even more familiar, even more comforting, but sad too. The song is I'll Be Your Lover Too by Van Morrison. My dad used to play me this song when I was little. I remember his pale oak guitar covered in Bob Dylan and Billy Joel and James Taylor stickers. When I was younger, I thought that instrument was as good as magic. I didn't know then what I do now, about frets and vibrations and pitches and how to play songs on a guitar. Back then it was all magic, and my dad was a magician. I even thought that's what he was talking about when he mentioned his favorite "musicians" like Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain. I had pictured them in my mind in top hats and black capes, running their fingers over the strings, casting a spell on the instrument to play the songs I loved.


This song couldn't have come on the radio at a worse time. As Morrison sang the lyrics;


"I'll understand
And do my best
to take good care of you"


I thought of my dad. I wondered where he was right now, what he was doing. He was probably in his den, dim lights, big burgundy furniture, reading some book on by a book of essays by some great author like T.S. Eliot or Khalil Gibran. My dad was always reading; books, essays, theories, poetry. He was probably one of the few people left in this country who still read the newspaper. I can thank him for my love of literature. He introduced me to books and taught me to read when I should have just been focusing on learning to walk. My dad used to take me to the bookstores in downtown Plymouth. We'd spend hours searching through the shelves. I would always find the biggest books in the store; dictionaries, thesauruses, encyclopedias, different theories about gravity and time. I wanted to impress my dad and everyone in the store by reading through definitions and passages and encyclopedia entries that would never be of help to me. But I didn't care, I was reading and I would read everything. Words fascinated me. The rhythm of words, syllables, the way they flowed so well together, and sometimes didn't. I was never interested in buying such books, so I didn't mind when we left the bookstore; I empty handed and my dad with a stack of books. We'd go to coffee shops where I'd order hot chocolate while my dad got his coffee black. I remember so clearly sitting at this certain table on the porch of the coffee shop. We sat in the corner and watched the passers-by on the sidewalk, people watching for hours. He would read to me parts of the books be bought. I remember one of the poems he read to me from some book. It was by Charles Bukowski, it was called Oh Yes. He would read me that poem and I loved it. I didn't understand it but it just sounded so pretty.

"there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late."