She was weaving, sitting at her metal frame loom. It was a
cool, sunny day with little clouds but you could see lightening off and away in
the distance, on the horizon. When it struck, it lanced across the sky and hit
the ground right behind our old house and her knee against the loom, the
proximity of the strike and the ground between proved to be an excellent
conductor as Momma's standing on end hairbun proved positive of that strike.
It is said that if you survive such an event, you are gifted
by the gods the power to speak to the rain, to the clouds, and to the very gods
themselves who cross the skies, playing with light and sound during inclement
weather.
My most favorite memory of her is of a day we spent
together, alone. Midday, the sunny skies turned dark and I came back into the
house to watch through the north facing windows the sight of the clouds
threatening rain. I remember the damp smell of the earth and the coolness of
the breeze on my face. I remember listening to the sound of my Mother in the
arbor outside, raking the front yard. Then the thunder started rolling loudly
overhead. I had never witnessed a monsoon like the one that took place over our
house that day. Thunder rolled from one end of the sky to the other and it was
so deafening as it clapped and boomed all around. Still, no rain. As soon as
one thunder clap had ended, another rolled right after the other, trailing in
its wake and at times, it came in waves of two or three altogether. I remember
feeling the sonic booms popping in the air and the feeling of our house
shuddering as the windows shook and the heavy oak doors swung slowly. It was
amazingly beautiful in all its wild glory especially as lightening began to
light up the darkness of the house every few minutes.
But. Still. No rain.
Momma was outside and soon, she tired of the din and noise
and she began shouting upwards at the clouds, 'Stop playing around! You bring
the promise of rain but would rather play! We need rain! Bring the rain or
leave!' As soon as she was done yelling, the first few drops of rain fell and
as she closed the distance from where she stood and the porch of the open door,
the light drops turned into a driving pour that drenched her skirt and matted
her hair to her scalp. I remember the smile on her face and the laughter she
let go of as she slammed the door behind her.
My Dad always told me that she could bring the rain, this
rainy day woman of his.
