For a few days a storm has been building here in the mountains.  The fog and mist thickened and the sky deepened-gray, then black.  It was you that heard the phrase spoken by your friend Caillou in his small worried voice, talking to his grandpa-“a storm’s brewing.”  We all say it now.  Grandpa said it yesterday as he left the house to feed the horses their lunches.  I called, “Ask our little buddy if he wants to go..”  “Oh”, moaned grandpa ” I can’t, he’s moved to Montana.”  The rain spattered.  The wind got so mighty that small branches cracked and snagged in the trees below.  Smaller ones flung across the driveway.  There was a roll and clap of thunder.  A crackle of lightning. And the power went out in the house.

I wish you were here, so we could watch the sky together.  We’d build a fire in the wood stove. We’d talk about the storm, the branches and grandpa’s raincoat. Families have a special language they use with one another, from their own childhoods, their toddlers, from talking to their dogs and each other.  Their experiences get word-tagged as they remember them together with unique choices, sometimes silly and made-up phrases;  special phrases  juicy with memories, special to us.

Grandpa ran into the house calling.  “Whew,” he shouted, “that was loud!” His antenna for his radios were swirling, bending and rocking about. He slipped in the mud. It was wild.  You’d have been a little worried, but then after a bit we’d laugh about grandpa’s excitement.