I don’t think it was a funnel cloud I saw, but it was black and the sky was swirly and it was at least a protuberance on the belly of the sky, a bump that got sucked back up before I plunged ahead and passed under it. Trees were thrashing and arcing, deep ceremonial bows to the east, to the west. Metal chairs and a table flew in front of me; I skirted them, aware it might have made more sense to back up, go around the block. But I just wanted to get home. “Holy fuck,” I said to my son. “Power’s out,” he said. We might drive around a bit, charge our devices, scope out the damage. We might wait until everything’s dead. I used to have recurring dreams, when I lived in a trailer, of tornados peeling the roof back like a sardine can, lifting me gently in my bed. I always hovered at the roofline. Nothing like that’s happened to me in real life. Not ever.
marniere 