My Best Friend

(Sally: Let someone else tell you about this story. It has some rather harsh language you may not approve of.)

It actually looked nothing like this, but you get the idea.

As I begin this story, I am sitting in my south Florida bay home staring out the window at a rainstorm, which has just knocked out my power. I am writing this on a computer with only 26% battery power (which disappears quickly these days) before this, too, has lost its usability. The sounds of sirens are going off in the distance. I’m certain due to a wayward lightning strike, which has set a building of little import to most of society on fire. Beyond the large elm in my front yard, well past the stone walkway and the dogwood trees, an occasional car will pass down the road. The car drives ever so cautiously in the rain, certain to be looking out for any rain-soaked animals, or children, running from the lightning in fear, searching for shelter. The sky is an eerie grey, not the black of night one might expect from a storm powerful enough to send me searching for candles and a lighter. This sky is one of an early morning, an overcast morning that could be filled with potential and possibility. This night, however, does not feel full of potential. I find myself sitting here, staring out the window, thinking one thing: “I am really glad I already cooked dinner.”