Hurricane Season

It was supposed to sound like a runaway train. Like an airplane lifting off. Like wind through a tunnel. But Kayla hears groaning, like a giant who has the whole world in its fist. Like murderers are trying to pound their way into her house. Like the sound someone makes when they lose everything.

Yesterday, she almost packed a bag to follow Matt north, but cars were already running out of gas on I-75, and the idea of going to a shelter, maybe that elementary school she detours three blocks out of her way to avoid on her way to Publix, was too exhausting. So, she filled the tub with water, bought two king-sized Heath bars and the last package of batteries at 7-11 that didn’t fit anything except the TV remote, and hoped for the best.

Matt was gone before he left. She’d been wandering through their loss alone, wearing her grief in reds too red, blacks too black, all of it too much. He wasn’t creative enough to pretend not to see. And it was supposed to be his tragedy too. He wouldn’t sit next to her for this either, thigh to thigh, watching the light outside turn a milky yellow. He would throw the same lie over his shoulder: “everything’s going to be okay.” 

A dog would be better. If she had a dog, it would rest its head on her knee. It wouldn’t try to fix anything. It would simply press against her on the floor of the hallway where there are no windows to blow apart and spray them with glass. But it’s just her. And the wind. And the rain.  

The lights flicker, go out, come back on, and then go out again. It’s early afternoon, but it’s twilight-dim. She gets two candles from the stacks of baby shower gifts she never returned. One is supposed to smell like cookies, and the other is called Rock-a-Bye. She lights them both and waits for the scents to race each other to her nose. Even after a few minutes, the room still smells empty—nothing-scented. She finds a new spot where the loveseat used to be, across the room from the window. 

Noises rise and fall. A garbage can battering down the driveway? The neighbors’ swing set falling sideways? The wind reaching its fingers under her roof, prying it off? Kayla crawls on hands and knees back to the hallway to wait. She doesn’t want Matt or a dog. She wants the wind to blow her out, like a breath against a candle. She wants to close her eyes, make that wish, and disappear.