Thunderstorm: Full Circle

1975.
Sometime past midnight.

The five-year-old awakes to the sharp, repeated cracks that follow almost instantly upon the glaring flashes of light. Looming branches of trees, tossing wildly in the wind, cast fiercely dancing shadows over her walls.

Her parents and sisters sleep upstairs. She imagines they are all comforted by that togetherness (despite the fact that the four of them are distributed amongst three rooms).

She is alone in her downstairs bedroom, chased by monstrous shadows that are instantly distinct in the flares of lightening, then blurred around the edges again when the light passes.

It is intolerable, this being the only one awake in the house, only one downstairs at night, only one dogged by the fearsome noise and disorienting, blinding light and advancing line of shadow-trees. And so, she takes her pillow, creeps softly and swiftly out of her bed in between roaring blasts of thunder, hoping to make it up the stairs before another demon lightening catches her.

She fails! On the staircase, the brilliant white light of noon penetrates the foyer windows, thunder rattling her resolve. She leans her pillow on the wall for support, places her head on it as if she is sleeping, and creeps on up the stairs, comforted by the solidity of the wall, the process of climbing, the nearing to her goal.

Reaching her parents' room, she is both relieved and mortified: they will know she was afraid. And so she makes herself a nest in the discarded bedspread that lies in a heap on the floor at the foot of their bed, rolling herself in it burrito fashion, lying her head quietly on her own pillow, breathing deeply the scent of her parents.

Relaxed by the sounds of other people breathing, she sleeps until morning. The sun is shining, the birds chirp, and mercifully, no one asks her why she is sleeping on the floor.

2000.
Sometime past midnight.

The girl-woman, unwilling to buckle in her resolve to Be Firm and Let the Puppy Know Who is Master, on this, her second night of puppy parenting, nevertheless feels horribly guilty about the tiny, crying creature in the next room. Determined that the pup (who will one day grow to be an 80 pound dog) will not come to expect sleeping in the people bed, she knows that the game is over if she removes the little thing from the crate and cuddles it close.

But the crying! It is heart-rending. Perhaps this pup, born and bred in Texas, has never heard a thunderstorm. Certainly, she has never witnessed a Midwestern whopper of one. With every gash of lightening and volley of thunder, the pup's whining becomes more urgent.

The girl-woman takes up her pillow and a spare comforter, leaves her warm bed and sleeping boyfriend, and goes into their living room where she stretches out, rolls herself--burrito fashion--in the puffy down, lays her head on her pillow, and reaches her fingers into the puppy's crate. She murmurs softly as the pup licks her fingers. It seems there is gratitude in that small, papery tongue.

The thunder and lightening continue to startle, and the pup whimpers occasionally, whines sharply at one particularly loud blast directly overhead, shivers occasionally in the flashes of white light. But slowly, sensing that the girl-woman will not leave, she settles down. Pressed against the door of the crate, with the girl-woman's fingers stroking the velvety fur between her ears, the pup seems to sign with contentment.

They both fall asleep.

In the morning, no one asks her why she is sleeping on the floor.

2010.
Sometime past midnight.

The once-pup, now an aging dog with little mobility, is occasionally not willing to make the arduous trek up the stairs at night. On this night, she stubbornly stays downstairs, snug in her bed, until the thunder starts.

Then, as the light splits the sky and the thunder follows right on its heels, she drags herself to the bottom of the staircase and begins to cry. All of the other creatures in the house--all four of them--are comfortably together upstairs, sleeping through this cacophany. (Dogs cannot do math and calculate that the four of them are distributed amongst three separate bedrooms.) Why should she be alone downstairs to face the shadowy demons of light and sound alone?

The woman comes down to half-carry her up the stairs, since she can no longer manage them alone. Not content to be tucked into her dog bed alongside the human one, the once-pup cries with every crack of thunder, pawing at the bed for comfort. The woman reaches down, softly fondles the every-bit-as-velvety fur between the once-pup's ears, and murmurs to her. If she tries to remove her arm back into her own bed, the once-pup whines again into the storm. As long as there is contact, there is contentment.

Within moments, the barely-perceptible footfalls of nearly-four-year-old feet creep into the parents' bedroom. Carrying an array of stuffed "guys," the little one climbs into the high bed, insinuates herself between her mother and her father, and curls one hand protectively around the woman's neck. When the storm reverberates even more loudly, the little one adds a pillow over their ears.

No one sends her back to her room.

Slowly, the once-pup stops her periodic crying, the little one's restless nervousness subsides into slumber, and--all of them touching at least one other--the family rests.

In the morning, there is only the sweetness of waking up all together and snug.

The only one sleeping on the floor is the dog.