bolt out of clear sky

This is my fridge. A friend of my daughter suggested a photo album might work better. I don't agree. I need this kaleidoscope of my world, all that I hold dear, right in front of my face, every day.














I make a point to look closely at this one:















It reminds me of a perfectly happy childhood day. A rainbow day, sunny after the storm, early in our summer vacation. A rare moment my babies were happy together. A downpour had left the back patio a shallow pool, so we brought out boats and bath toys and splashed and laughed.

I went inside for a towel when the lightening struck the nearest tree. The sound of my daughter’s scream is permanently etched in my memory, as she had never before felt real terror and danger and such loud, hot noise. She did not yet understand what had happened, but ran to the door, to me. My son stood frozen, stone on stone, eyes wide. I ran to them, hurried them inside and held them close, away from the windows, shaking with them in disbelief and relief.

Clear sky lightening. I have taken college meteorology. I am a weather, science nature geek and I did not know. Now I know. Wait 30 minutes after the storm, for the electricity to dissipate. Now I know that in 30 seconds you can lose everything; in a heartbeat your life can be ruined, that all you hold dear can be taken arbitrarily, randomly, in the blink of an eye. Even in the most idyllic of moments, life can shake you around and mock you, and fill you with fear, and anger and despair, and gratitude and grace and tears of joy. I now know that motherhood is nothing as I imagined, that I am stronger than I thought and weaker than I care to admit. I know you can live with a lump in your throat, a tic in your heartbeat, a shadow in your sleep. So I keep this picture on my fridge, illlustrated love, held in place with magnets, to help hold me in place.