The Curious Storm
by Emily Adamiak
published in Issue No. 14: September/October 2021
She wears the change of the season as a second skin. As the trees entertain their autumnal dress, so too does she welcome the shifting air. Their transition alights a smile upon her cheeks. The weather, too, has progressed toward its sleepier season. The wind presses its hands at her window, teasing her to come join the leaves it has procured in its travels to her door. It places a crisp kiss upon the panes, a consummate flirt. She laughs.
Rain introduces the dawn. It greets her with a light salute before the deluge follows closely behind. She fears not. Bottles of thunderstorms past rest atop her mantle. They quiver and shake, hoping for release. Beside them, her rare books lay, scattered with intent and familiarity. Candles adorn the empty spaces between their spines. They quiver in anticipation of the few rays escaping the growing vortex outside.
With a sigh, she clasps her cup and sips merrily, admiring her wares. Her home settles, balancing between this newfound battle of the light and the dark. She mimics its movements, swaying to and fro as she takes stock of her humble home. Lavender and rosemary sway, waving from their posts by the entry. The flames of both hearth and candle trail each other along the walls, entranced in their own private dance.
Hours pass in a blink. Shadows enter her abode, thankful once again for her warm invitation. They enjoy their visits here, for the time has come for their yearly stay. Settling in beside the fireplace, claiming forgotten corners, they expand and grow, the space now both hers and theirs. She lets them. She relishes their company after a long and winding year.
Soon, the sky dries its eyes. She smiles as she pushes open the door from her little world into the forest across her threshold. A moon like clotted cream greets her as she embraces the night. Her steps never falter, her thoughts brimming with soft and mindful prose. She lifts her face to the stars, for they too have awoken as if from a dream. They twinkle in time with the owlís evening greeting.
Autumn arrives slowly, but not for her. She anticipates its entrance with open arms. The night and day are equals as she holds them both in her heart. She laughs at her footprints, boots coated in memories. These she makes and remembers with reckless abandon. She trails her hand along the bark of her neighbor oak. He stretches toward her touch.
The moon, overcome with shyness, tucks behind a cloud. She claps aloud, delighted, for this is her favorite game to play. She too stows her face away, her palms pressed tightly to her cheeks. She listens, to the dark and the alive before rays once again filter through her fingers.
Light is always more cherished when the dark comes out to play. Tonight, she chooses to greet the darkness with aged friendship rather than in strained acquaintance. Sighing, she treads the familiar path.
