It all goes back to about five minutes ago. I’m now on my bed with my lap top in a whirlwind of blue. My computer is floating between the silk of my shorts and the fleece of my royal blue blanket. My reversible, also blue comforter is nestled between my right leg and my window sill, which is being peeked through by my navy blue curtains, that surprisingly weren’t picked by me. My walls lye blue, Citadel, and the cup holding my office supplies is also, blue. The binder that I’ve constructed, filled with information and flyers about my chosen university, is yet again, blue. The home made water bottle labels that congratulate the class of 2009 are a soft blue, blended in with the clear of it all. Many photos around my room consist of blue, navy blue, darker blue, and a baby blue too. It’s the eleventh of July and it is raining and it is thundering and it is lightninging.
I woke up at a time that appeals to my eyes, eight forty five; 8:45. It’s such a well rounded, jagged yet lovely combination of numbers to look at. It’s easy on the eyes. The first snippet of whatever that I thought in my mind was: This weather is perfect. The window and curtains furthest from my bed (the whole arrangement consists of four windows under a semi-circle one) were draped open for the premature sounds of the storm to enter and fill my room repeatedly. It wasn’t quite dark gray outside yet, as there was a visible little haze of orange and yellow combined just south east of my home, just like a banana mango creamsicle. Only my mother and obviously my puppy were awake, barking. My dog, not my mom. Storms make him nuts. Not almonds. And not always just thunder. Just, abnormalities, or situations that are rare.
As I was saying, it goes back to about ten minutes or so ago now. I was on my porch finishing the last of my tea, then cold and sweet since the unblended honey had sunken to the bottom, getting chills both physically and emotionally from this thunder storm. I had been taking videos, both regular speed and increased speed, watching the quickly changing clouds roll and bundle in southwards, as though someone was kneading dough. I had been taking photographs of the sky and of the trees contrasted with the sky, and with the form of my body also contrasted with the lightness of the sky: a silhouette shot.
Earlier, a few minutes after waking up and good morninging my mother and puppy dog, I sat out on the back patio, just sitting. Well not “just” sitting. I was sitting. I am sitting now too. I noted the wetting patio from the little periods and commas of rain, slowly and eventually filling every crevice of my backyard. The daisies that had grown completely when I was away were in full swing, and were tall, and very white. The red and yellow lilies have also grown up, sharing with me a secret for me to know.
In the front, I could feel the mist of the rain being thrown from the sky, bouncing off the porch railing and onto my skin, from underneath the overhead shelter. I look at everything, at the water being drained from the gutter, the dew drops on the small circular table, the seagull presents on the chipping railing, around the corner, at my reflection within the window. I’ve become cold.
My father comes out in his blue pajama pants and a thin white undershirt with a mug that dates back to my childhood. His belly is pushing through, and he just smiles. “It’s really coming down isn’t it,” he asks, rhetorically. “Yeah.” This is when I noted the water from the gutter. And the beating of pellets into previously formed pools of rain on my crooked driveway. This storm is some sort of feminine weapon, a Tomb Raider Laura Croft wouldn’t mind.
My father, a few minutes before, was throwing up the blinds and making the gesture with his hand that suggests I should come inside, but wouldn’t mind if I didn’t. So I didn’t. I sat, then having to pee because of the tea, without leaning back into the woven, champagne cross straw coloured patio chair. I decided I should go inside though.
The house immediately reeked of breakfast eggs when I open and step inside. This is the weekend smell that I’ve been taking for granted, that, and my father’s kidney that he cooks at eleven at night. That’s harsh.
There’s something to be said for mornings in the Burrows residence during thunderstorms. We still go through with our routines, the newspapers, the bacon and the eggs, the looking out the windows, tea, but there is this force that is now the focus, and the force that everything seems to revolve around for the few short hours that this beautiful pattern of weather is here. We take precautions, we wonder, we inspect, we note it. We sit in blue blankets in blue rooms with blue eyes and we write.