the light before the sound

The thunder says stuff like, I’m here for you. I’m here with you. You are not alone. I don’t care about getting wet or a barking dog. I’m not scared. Don’t be scared. Also, you are not in charge here. Take cover, get inside, get to the side of the road. As long as it’s safe, stay where you are.

The lightning before the thunder is a spoiler alert, is a warning sign, a flash in the pan, a spark ignited, the sharp diagonal light before the sound.

I had just finished my second to last try at wake boarding — and when I say wake boarding, I mean, almost getting up once on a wake board, but mainly crashing gloriously into the water almost immediately after being pulled upright — when the air got thick quick and the sky downshifted into near darkness. The person driving the boat said let’s go back in a minute, take one more turn. After my last splash into the water, after being towed in, my fingertips almost touching the edge of the boat, a crackle, like the sound of a small scrap of paper being crumpled up, and then, a huge bolt of lightning. Electricity ripped through the water, punching my midsection from all sides at once. A guttural shout-cry shot out from my body, my hands gripped the edge of the boat — them shouting pull her in now! The boat turned on itself and zipped back into the slip at the dock. My body wobbled as I hurried up the hill, Brendan touching me, my back, asking me are you ok?! Maybe it was the hill I was climbing or the lightning that had just penetrated my bones, I was out of breath, but I was ok. I asked if my hair had turned white. (No.) I was hoping I’d wake up the next day with white hair. (Again, no.) I cracked open a cold Miller and chugged it fast, still dripping in my suit, towel wrapped around me. Shivering.

The rain has stopped now. I feel the light warming.

The sun is up there, still.

Hold on.