Pork chop Night. part 2

Thunderstorms are hint of the power that can be had when many small things work together, whether on purpose or otherwise. This power can be seen in many things; people, ants and water droplets. But is not limited to physical beings or tangible objects, it can be stored as small comments unforgotten and memories long un-thought. The madness of crowds and small multiples is nothing that can be planned, although it often happens on purpose and is sometimes overdue. Anger and dissention rise like a thunderstorm, with feeble beginnings and innocent grudges, and slowly but exponentially grows over time, sometimes unknown to its captive. One cannot hold forever this weighted state and will one day give deluge to it’s furry, even if unknown, hidden within.  

“I very much like dogs,” I say to myself as I pedal home. I don’t think I would like to own one, but I like the idea all the same.. There was something happening overhead. The clouds were giving up their independence and joining into something greater. Low rumbles of thunder were starting to make their way to my ears. I loved thunderstorms.

It was getting a little dark as I neared our building, and by the time I reached the front stoop it was raining slightly.  I pulled my hawthorn up the eight steps to our front door. I know it was exactly eight as I counted them ever time I went up or down. It made me happy that there were eight and not seven or nine. It was an even eight, a good sturdy number, plus I like the sound of the word eight. Its like ‘ate’ but slightly different. I like words that are close but not quite. The front door was open slightly, a weird open. Not all the way open as if to suggest purpose, and not just barely to suggest a carless closing, but sort of not quite half way open. Or maybe a little more than half closed. I pushed the door open all the way and pulled my shining and now water droplet stricken bike into the foyer and leaned it on the wall under the coat rack, pinching the sleeves of one of my dads camel hair coats between the handlebars and the wall. I pulled at an end of my scarf, which hung on the rack all year long, until it fell off the hook and over the top bar of my bike like lace. I took both ends and dried my bike with back and fourth polishing motion. My mom would be furious if she saw me do this, after all it was from Macy’s. I put the scarf back on the hook with a sort of lasso motion but not letting go of either end. It caught the wooden peg on the third try and as it did I noticed the tag. ‘Marc Wollard’. My mom had written my name on the tag with Sanford’s ink so as to identify it to me. For some reason all my scarves kept loosing me. I closed the door behind me, locked both the handle and the deadbolt, and made my way up the stairs and into the house proper.