Curse You, Cumulonimbus Clouds

Until I was around 12 years old, I had always believed that weathermen controlled the weather. In retrospect, although it made sense for someone in elementary school to believe in superstitions like this, the fact that I had until I was in the 7th grade baffles me. If it hadn't been for my mother, I would’ve been cursing Dick Goddard right up until he retired; but I don’t think I would’ve watched the weather for that long anyway, and it was not like I did either when I was in middle school.

It was at that cold, aromatic bazaar down in Kings Plaza when I began hearing the relentless pelt of raindrops drumming up above the ceiling. Being the little adhd-infested kid I was, my mouth was itching to babble on just about anything; besides, I had yearned for the truth ever since I had asked the same question to my uncle during Thanksgiving, and his response had been that it was all because of this guy named George Bush. When I shared this with my dad and went upstairs to make my cousin’s life insufferable, it got pretty loud down there. In the car ride home, my dad told me not to listen to him, and I said I wouldn’t.

I asked my mother how the weathermen kept their jobs if people didn’t like how they made it rain all day, Ma, and she turned to me, with a sheaf of spinach in her hands that was about to be placed into the shopping cart.

“What do you mean ‘they make it rain’?”

“I mean, why do they always have to make the streets flood and volcanoes erupt and tornadoes touch down?” I was deep in thought, and a revelation popped up in my mind: “Aren’t they killing people, too? You know Auntie’s town had had like 14 people that were killed cause of that tornado last year…”

Her jaw suddenly clenched and her pupils dilated, and I knew I had said something wrong—and the fact that I didn’t know what made her scarier.

“First of all, you won’t mention that event again. Your auntie’s house was almost blown away and it was a miracle it didn’t. And you think weathermen control what goes on in this world? You think those people are God?”

My face reddened with suppressed anger, as I had never once mentioned God; but I knew better than to rebut.

“Those people don’t have power. God has all the power in the universe and that is the end of it. You understand?”

Annoyed at the groundless sensitivity this topic carried, I decided to try and pursue it once and for all, even if it cost my life.

“...But then that means God kills people,” I muttered.

A stinging, thunderous smack that vied with the thunder outside reverberated throughout the linoleum corridors, and it seemed like every head in the store jerked toward us. Coupled with shame and pain, my face was no redder than a ruby. The car ride home was the dull sound of the road droning beneath as I hiccupped crazily—and at that moment, I vowed never to talk to my mother again, never to look at her, never to eat her food, and never to visit her when I got old enough to move out.

This storm was stronger than any I had ever experienced—even that EAS alarm came up on the TV, but my dad said that it was loud and shut it off. Tornado season had started down here in the Midwest, and days like these were a common occurrence. I never liked rainy days very much, mostly because it always brought with it some sentimentality I could not put into words; if it had been a weekday, I would’ve slacked on work and had to have a good nap until the weather got better.

For some particular reason, I couldn’t help but go into a deep muse about that day. What if I had actually kept my promise? What if I actually had refused to look at her, eat her food, visit her or whatever? Emotions can get the best of us, it seems.

“Hey.”

I turned my head, and my dad was trodding out from his bedroom, the underside of his stomach visible from his bright blue tank top.

“Hi,” I replied, looking back away.

“What time is it?”

I shrugged. “The storm knocked out the Wi-Fi. The power’s still on, though, dunno how.”

As he nodded and began lumbering his way back, I decided to try and share what was on my mind. I called for him again, without looking to see if he had heard.

“Do you sometimes wonder why you did something in the past, and like, you think about it, and you like, you’re like–I mean like…”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

The floorboards creaked on until I heard his door shut.

My hands were folded, and elbows were on the table when suddenly, I felt mad. I felt angry. I wished I could’ve done more before. Why did that happen? Nobody knows. Was it God? She had prayed to that thing every night. I wanted to lash out. That damn wind was shaking the entire house, and I wanted to choke it.

…Maybe I could be redeemed if I…

I looked toward the door, which was throwing a fit on its hinges, and stared at it before standing up and throwing my chair on the ground. I was trying to get it open, and it was damn hard to do so. I heard my dad from behind asking the hell I was doing, but I ignored him.

Almost detaching the doorknob, the wind flung the door open, and I sprinted outside. I stood up straight, with my arms high up in the air, waiting for the lightning to get me, or a flying lawn chair to knock me out, or the hail to strike me in the head.

But there was no rain, there was no thunder—only the sun.

Thanks, Ma.