Grey noise. The drone of incessant rain coming down in waves, hard,
then softer, with a rumble of thunder, through a flash in the sky. Overflowing the gutters, making a pond of my front sidewalk, a river of my garden’s drainage moat and seeping into the basement insidiously as if challenging me to be OK with that.
I give it a sideways glance to retort how little I am noticing the intrusion, but I am noticing. I still count myself lucky. I have a concrete floor in my basement with drains that work well.
I am at the top of a hill. I have a new roof and my trees have been well trimmed or removed to minimize danger to my home. I will survive. So will my house. Tornado threats are far removed now.
I worry about my kids going to and returning from school. My daughter calls to see if she can pick up a friend who missed her bus. No, I say; stay safe, stay where you are. Your friend will be better off at home.
No, I say again, just to be clear. It means I love you and don’t want you to take any unnecessary chances. It means I do not want to lose my kind, loving daughter to flood waters. It means I love your friend too and her parents who would not want to lose her either. Or you. I love you. Stay safe. Come home again today. All of my children, come home again today. Be grateful. Be alive. Keep my grey at bay.
The incessant rain continues, pelting my nerves. It’s just noise; grey noise.