Her Storm Will Scream Your Name
Fiction
Patrick Harris
Issue date: 11/13/09 Section: Creative Writing
I'm in a rush entering the apartment, and I forget to hit the lights on the way through the door. After all the years I've lived here, this shouldn't be a problem, but I've forgotten about the chaos that awaits me, and I don't make it more than a few feet before I trip over a cardboard box, nearly going through a glass coffee table on the way down.
I take a moment to collect myself, letting the sound of thunder refill me with purpose before I heave myself off the floor. A careful step puts the light switch within reach, and a flickering moment later I can see again. I survey the carefully stacked crates, the furniture with taped edges, and pick a path to the bedroom, where more boxes wait. It doesn't take me more than a moment to find the one I want, and as I delicately remove it from its pile I reflect on the oddities of change. Moving in here, a lifetime ago, I couldn't have told you where any single item was; unpacking was a month-long process of constant confusion. This time I actually have a spreadsheet to tell me where to look, but I haven't needed to consult it yet.
Lightning flashes outside my window, and the lights flicker alarmingly for a moment. I close my eyes as the windows rattle in the following crash, then tear eagerly into the box in the ensuing silence. Fighting the urge to upend it on the bare mattress, I remove faded lace and bright skirts with shaking hands, setting them reverently aside as the dull shimmer I seek comes in to view. With both hands, I take out the velvet lump and carefully unfold it.
The coat was always far too big for her, but that was half the point. Gazing into the polished brass buttons, I see her twinkling eyes for a moment, and nearly give in to the tears. But there will be time enough for that soon. Slipping the garment on, I fold the sleeves back, then fold them again, and still feel like a toddler in her father's clothing. But that scarcely matters today. Reaching back into the box, I open another container within, and produce a faded top hat.
My heart starts to race as I turn to the mirror, and I pin my hair up carefully, pushing the hat firmly down over it. Tapping it a few times to be certain of its stability, I head for the front door, stepping over the sodden raincoat I dropped in the way in, and walk out through a wall of cold water.
With a choked laugh, I dance out into the street, racing off towards nowhere in particular. I don't know how long the storm will last, but its force is amazing, and that seems fitting - it's the first since I let her go, and probably the last before winter's freeze, and if she can't be here to celebrate it like she did so many others, I'm going to do it for her.
I take a moment to collect myself, letting the sound of thunder refill me with purpose before I heave myself off the floor. A careful step puts the light switch within reach, and a flickering moment later I can see again. I survey the carefully stacked crates, the furniture with taped edges, and pick a path to the bedroom, where more boxes wait. It doesn't take me more than a moment to find the one I want, and as I delicately remove it from its pile I reflect on the oddities of change. Moving in here, a lifetime ago, I couldn't have told you where any single item was; unpacking was a month-long process of constant confusion. This time I actually have a spreadsheet to tell me where to look, but I haven't needed to consult it yet.
Lightning flashes outside my window, and the lights flicker alarmingly for a moment. I close my eyes as the windows rattle in the following crash, then tear eagerly into the box in the ensuing silence. Fighting the urge to upend it on the bare mattress, I remove faded lace and bright skirts with shaking hands, setting them reverently aside as the dull shimmer I seek comes in to view. With both hands, I take out the velvet lump and carefully unfold it.
The coat was always far too big for her, but that was half the point. Gazing into the polished brass buttons, I see her twinkling eyes for a moment, and nearly give in to the tears. But there will be time enough for that soon. Slipping the garment on, I fold the sleeves back, then fold them again, and still feel like a toddler in her father's clothing. But that scarcely matters today. Reaching back into the box, I open another container within, and produce a faded top hat.
My heart starts to race as I turn to the mirror, and I pin my hair up carefully, pushing the hat firmly down over it. Tapping it a few times to be certain of its stability, I head for the front door, stepping over the sodden raincoat I dropped in the way in, and walk out through a wall of cold water.
With a choked laugh, I dance out into the street, racing off towards nowhere in particular. I don't know how long the storm will last, but its force is amazing, and that seems fitting - it's the first since I let her go, and probably the last before winter's freeze, and if she can't be here to celebrate it like she did so many others, I'm going to do it for her.
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