I followed my daughter’s gaze to the horizon and saw the lightning flash. Clouds dark as God’s armageddon gathered force along the distant mountain range. On cue the wind blew a tumbleweed across the highway in front of my car. Despite the summer heat, I shivered as a goose stepped over my grave.
It’s comin’ a storm.
Something about that phrase sparked my imagination, resonating with images of desperate ghost towns and a finality that comes with accepting what you can’t control. A whole world spun out in my imagination, the possibilities tangled like threads in a broken loom.
“It’s comin’ a storm?” scoffed my son from the backseat. “You sound like Yoda.”
“My words tripped on their way out of my mouth,” my daughter said with a shrug.
“Better not speak like that in school or they’ll kick you out of Honors English,” he said.
“Whatever. It’s still coming,” she said.
I shook my head and swept up the cobwebs of an unborn story, tucking them into bed in a mental incubator. We were running a marathon of back-to-school shopping and like Robert Frost said, we had miles to go before we sleep.
It’s comin’ a storm–and a story–but not today.