Monsoon Season
It was raining hard that day. My family and I relaxed under a makeshift shelter. They were eating soggy hotdogs, a camping staple. I contented myself with instant mashed potatoes, one of the few foods that my swollen jaws could tolerate. The surgery was a week behind me, and my face still looked like I had stuffed clementines in my cheeks.
The patter of rain on the tarp grew louder, and little rivers formed in the damp sand. My mother glanced around us nervously. "We should get to the tent." I smiled. The rain sounded like music, harmonizing with thrashing tree branches and the sizzle of car tires whizzing through muddy puddles. "Why? It's not like it will last long. The one on Sunday was only a few hours, remember?" My mother shook her head, but we stayed outside. But as the patter became a drum solo and the rain failed to stop, my idea became less appealing. Mom suggested we would be better off taking shelter in the concrete-and-bricks comfort station. My dad preferred her earlier idea of going to the tent. They began to argue, but my brother and I exchanged looks and returned our eyes to the clouds. "Was that lighting?" This innocuous question from my brother triggered some primal instinct in Mom. Quicker than thought, she was up and running, my hand crushed in hers. There was no time for protest, only speed. The rain had become a torrential downpour, and we were dripping five extra pounds when we reached the bathrooms. Caught in the adrenaline, I giggled at the people lining the shelter of the outside overhang. Though dirt clung to the floors and insects flickered in the corners, being inside was vastly preferable to standing under the soggy eaves. We spent the next four hours hiding in that bomb shelter of a comfort station. Plastic-wrapped campers came and went, bringing news and anxious forecasts. With the tornado in Goderich just days behind us, thoughts of destruction were understandably foremost in our minds. Reports of funnel cloud sightings all over the area pushed them farther forward, into our darting eyes and pursed lips. I had no idea where my dad and brother were. Finally, finally, the rain slowed. Water still fell, but it was a quiet weeping, not the hissing rage that had urged us to panic. My mother and I decided to risk it. We needed to know where the men were, and our cellphones lay helplessly in the tent. Back down the hill we went, slipping on mud and fugitive runnels of water. We found them in the car. The green tent stood nearby, rocking in a three inch pond. I crossed my fingers and hoped none of my books were damaged. My brother passed me the chips while Mom and Dad investigated the tent for leaks. Miraculously, only the slightest dampness had crept in. The stars had never looked quite so beautiful as my mother and I spent the rest of the night in the car. We listened anxiously to the radio and dozed uncomfortably in the seats, tilted back as far as we could go. Those winks of light, unsullied as ice, beamed at us, and I beamed back. When your world is shaken like an Etch A Sketch, sometimes it's good to sit back and appreciate the sky. Helen Hey is a first-year student going into Comparative Literature and Culture. She enjoys the simple beauty of words, and hopes to one day be a full-time writer. Barring that fortunate occurrence, she will settle for continuing to read inspiring books, and writing in her own quiet way. |