Mud, In Retrospect - 7/25/09

My cheeks were sore.
I stood at that window on my toes until my Achilles felt like worn out trusses.
In my pain, I would run to the TV and turn on the news station.
My stomach had that light, airy, tingling feeling,
As though I'd digested a bevy of butterflies.
The anticipation manifested itself in my legs,
They became restless...shaking like I was sitting on a jackhammer.
Then, the news broke in, "This is a special weather report."
Despite my cheeks feeling like overstretched rubber bands,
I was able to grin.
"There is a severe thunderstorm warning for all counties in the metro Atlanta area,
please take cover now. There have been reported funnel clouds, and hail as well."
Before the weatherman could get another sentence out,
I ran back to the window.
Ominous clouds, large dark grey puffs of havoc,
Were headed straight for us.
Mom was already headed downstairs, apprehensive as usual.
Dad on the other hand, was trying to find a flashlight.
The sound of him rumbling through the cabinets was interjected upon,
boom-BOOOOM boom tap. Thunder ripped through the house,
Leaving a noise similar to that of 1000 pennies coming to rest after being spun.
Most kids would've been terrified, but not I.
I just wanted the result of the rain.
As if Mother Nature was making her own alphabet,
Lighting was streaking across the sky, her protean manuscript.
I felt like a basketball player, with the lightning as my camera flashes.
Dad implored me to join him and Mom downstairs, but he knew it was to no avail,
And just told me he'd come get me if he felt it was that bad.
No sooner than he said that,
Rain in sheets thick enough to mystify a man with cataracts began to fall.
We had a fairly large house, so the resulting sound was tranquil,
As though I were a child in a womb while my mother was showering.
The thunder and lightning continued, and I just stood in the window.
Between us having the lights off and the cloud cover,
The house had been saturated gray.
I always did enjoy that particular color of sunlight that was given during storms.
Soon, hail began to fall, which sounded like marbles being poured out of a glass bowl.
It was ephemeral though, with the entire storm passing 15 minutes after that.
With the alacrity and determination of an archaeologist running to see a newly excavated fossil,
I slipped on shoes and ran outside.
The front yard was soaked, and before I took two good steps my legs were drenched from the calf down.
I had to go see it though...this is what I was smiling about.
There was a slight drizzle, like a falling mist greeting and cooling my face that was warm with glee
The humidity was extreme, causing me to gasp for breath though only running a few feet
I was wet, warm, and refreshed, but this was not what I wanted from nature;
I only wanted to see the mud.
When I looked down and saw it, the excitement in me boiled over,
My eyes began to water and I jumped up and down, only furthering how wet I was.
Mud was always so amazing to me...
Water and dirt, two totally different elements,
Came together seamlessly.
It was a concept that I wished applied to life.
I wished that Whites, who were always flowing in some direction towards betterment,
And Blacks, who were strong and solid,
Could come together and make a peaceful mud.
I wished that America, with its fluid motives and desires,
And North Korea, with its staunch stance
Could meet in the middle and make some mud.
I wanted more mud in the world....
Water and dirt are ok, but sometimes you have to come together.
Mud was strong too, as ants used it to build their homes.
Just think if the mud I had imagined was that strong...
Strong bonds between opposing factions in the world...that would mean peace!
Mud does turn back to dirt though, which could mean the deterioration of relations,
But the rain of diplomacy could build it back.
What a novel concept...
Or maybe, just maybe,
I was simply a kid that used to love mud for one reason, and one reason only:
I loved being a dirty little boy, trying to be a 'manly man.'
My thoughts are a bit muddy...
So who knows?

-A. Lewis