Two things learned this morning, by listening. The dark garage morning reminding me of the sound of the wind. The removal of the unaccustomed in memory to show up in a different space of time.
Just a couple of months removed from the hard winds of autumn rainstorms, grown used to the soft silent snowfall, tonight’s storm turns back time and gives me the feeling, the sense and the sound of the hurricane I need to give voice in Tim Dawson. I’d forgotten, lulled by winter, exactly how autumn speaks.
Yesterday afternoon, a loud rumble that shuddered the ground; I went outside the shop to check the road for crashed cars, the sky for a jet plane, the roof for a fallen tree branch. Ten minutes later, another. Thunder. Thunder, two months out of its place in time. Unrecognized because we have moved to another, a different space marked by time and season, regardless of space marked by place.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology