A Mother's Vigil During an Autumn Storm

It’s the latest in a string of autumn storms, each with its own unique qualities, some bring more wind, some more rain, some last twenty minutes and some rage an entire afternoon, leaving the yard scattered with dead leaves and broken branches.

This one announces its arrival in slow, looming stages. While Mary washes the breakfast dishes, the watery pale sun dims and the sky turns to gray. Dean pushes his toy truck around on the kitchen floor while Sammy, lying in his bassinette on the table, tries to grab his own toes and makes gleeful noises. As the light in the kitchen alters, Dean stops pushing his truck and looks up, tilting his head to one side, body going still.

Looks like we're in for it again, kiddo, Mary says, wiping her hands dry on a towel.

Batten down the hatches, Mommy, Dean says and goes back to his cars.

She laughs. Good idea. Let's go batten down the hatches.

When the first load of laundry comes out of the dryer, the sky has gone to a darker gray and the wind is rising, lashing the trees in the yard. The swings John had set up in August whip back and forth, standing on the back steps with Sammy in her arms, Mary listens to the steady creak of their chains. Meanwhile Dean runs on the grass, hair going every which way as he careens into the wind. The storms make him watchful and excited, as if they are large animals to marvel over, an elephant or a zebra or an emu.

This one seems like a tiger to her, a slow creep through the grasses, preparing for a pounce. It feels different, making her skin prickle, and she holds Sammy closer, inhaling the scent of baby powder and baby smell and something that is particularly Sammy.

Come inside, Dean, she calls and he veers in his mad rush around the yard.

He circles back towards her as he always does, despite the gleam of mischief in his eyes, his inclination towards climbing onto, climbing into, climbing under or running towards things that might or might not be good for a little boy.

It is going to rain? He stops in front of her, a little out of breath, eager.

Soon, honey.

By the time the laundry is folded, Dean helps, which means Mary folds several of John's shirts and jeans twice, the sky through the windows has turned an odd bottle green, muddy as old glass.

Dean eats his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and stares out the window, watching with her as the dark mass of the storm consumes the green hue and devours the sky.

The first big drops of rain splatter the window without warning. Standing with her arms folded, her hip leaning against the sink, Mary jumps.

She puts Sammy down for a nap, distracts Dean with his toy cars so she can pay a few bills and settles in the living room with the baby monitor, listening to the relentless patter of rain.

Lightning flashes and Dean stops his play. Mary pauses with her pen in her fingers. A clap of thunder and her oldest son, who has never shown any fear of storms before, flinches.

Dean? she says, a gentle inquiry, and he turns to look at her a moment.

It's real loud, says Dean then begins pushing his cars around on the living room rug again.

Yeah, it is, she says.

As the storm rants on, Dean begins to push the cars closer towards her.

A brilliant flash, very close, and a sharp boom of thunder, wakes up Sammy, his wail sounding over the monitor, and that's when Dean abandons his cars. He stands up fast, his shoulders rigid, eyes wide. Dean frowns, looking for a moment uncannily like John.

Let's go check on Sammy, Mary says. C'mon, Dean, it's okay, it's just a storm. She holds out her hand, he takes it and together they go upstairs.

When they get to the nursery Dean runs in ahead of her and grabs the bars of the crib. He pulls himself up so he can pat Sammy on the back. It's okay, he says while Sammy cries. It's just a storm.

Mary gathers up her baby boy, whispers soothing words and tucks his body warm with sleep near her heart. He quiets down but the storm doesn't so she takes her boys downstairs, puts Sammy in the bassinette on the couch with them while she and Dean settle in with her worn copy of The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. But Dean barely seems to listen. He keeps turning his head to look at the shadows. Mary brushes the hair back from his forehead, points to the pictures while he leans against her side like he’s trying to meld back into her body.

At last the storm begins to die, rumbling off into the west, and Dean yawns. She puts him down for a nap in John's armchair, tucked under a blanket.

When he wakes up from his nap the storm is barely over, a beam of sunlight slicing through the racing clouds and into the living room. Sirens sound in the distance.

She feels a sense of release, of lightness, a return to normalcy. Hey, Dean, she says, and he blinks sleepily at her. Storm's over. Let's go outside.

She manages to get sneakers and a sweater on him before he slips away from her and runs to the front door.

Mary follows quickly, holding Sammy, feeling as buoyant as her four year old. The three of them go out onto the porch to see how the afternoon sun glints off the damp street, gleams off the chrome on wet cars. More branches have fallen in the yard from the big old tree but looking up and down the street, Mary can't see any damage worse than a few overturned lawn chairs.

Quite a show, right? she says, looking down at Dean who looks back up at her.

Uh huh, he says, nodding.

She grins down at him and Dean grins back. Sammy laughs and reaches towards his brother while Mary turns her face into the sun.