I pulled into the drive. 2:15 pm. Mom & Dad’s little yellow house.
Dark grey clouds loom. Thunder churns. The wind picks up. Midlands schools are cancelling evening activities.
A tornado alert just sounded on my phone.
My father, Jack, will be 70 years old this December. I spy him seated, alone, on the front deck that he built sixteen years ago. Watching lightning storms use to one of my favorite things to do with him as a child. Of course he’d be out here now. Daddy never changes.
His wrinkled, permanently calloused hands are folded together. Staring silently off towards the coming storm, he’s motionless.
Well, except for his solid white hair.