Dead Calm

There was not a breath of breeze and not a single leaf stirring. Even the birds and squirrels had taken refuge and were nowhere to be seen. The heat was heavy, oppressive, so thick that it took your breath away and drained your energy like a giant suction machine. Tree limbs hung, still as stone, not the least flutter to be seen and not a single child's voice to be heard. The heat encased us like a heavy, wet, woolen blanket. It was dead calm with no relief or escape in sight.

The maple tree, centered squarely in the middle of the back yard, provided the only shade and we were gathered under it, sitting at the splintery, old wooden picnic table, celebrating my mother's birthday. She was suffering - wilted and drenched with sweat, she drank can after can of cold beer and pressed ice to her face, throat, and neck. It didn't help much and she looked ready to faint, the sweat made her appear to be melting in front of our eyes. My daddy tried to tempt her with cold potato salad and iced coffee but she waved him away. He dragged out an old box fan and set it directly in front of her, set it at the highest setting, and the steamy air began to blow at her. She leaned into it, eyes closed, hair plastered to her forehead. When she shook her head, a fine shower of sweat sprayed around her. She dug both hands into the barrel of ice to retrieve another can of beer, pressing it to her cheeks before opening it and gulping it down. My daddy kept his silence while he piled paper plates with potato salad, chilled fruit,

pickles and cold chicken. He had offered to grill and she had snapped at him sharply, suggesting that he had lost his mind if he thought a fire was a good idea in this kind of heat. He'd shrugged and opened another bag of ice, her words and tone melted harmlessly away before they struck him. This trick of deflection was something I would never learn - sharp words sting me to this day and my mother's voice still plays in my head when I least expect it. I used to wish for an invisible shield that I could hide behind and be protected by - her words would hit it and bounce off before they could harm me. On this afternoon though, there was nothing to fear. She was consumed with the hateful heat and paying no mind to anyone else. Finally, her food untouched and presents unopened, she staggered toward the house, saying she couldn't stand another second. No one protested and it took hardly any effort to persuade my daddy to turn on the sprinkler and join in a game of water tag

The rare late summer heat wave broke a few days later and the birds and squirrels returned to the yard. Labor Day passed and we returned to school. Summer was soon forgotten. Life, W.E. Timmons wrote, is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain

.

.