Last night we went for a family walk because it was lovely outside and because we like each other.
We walked. And walked. And walked. Because it felt good to our legs and because we had a lot to talk about. When we stopped to figure out where we were, we realized we were totally lost. So we walked some more until we found a street name we recognized...whereupon we realized that we were at least two miles from home. It was getting dark and we had already been walking for nearly an hour, so we picked up the pace a little to a "wog," the pace right between walk and jog.
And then it started to rain. And Henry started chuckling with delight. And then it started to rain Texas style--plump, heavy drops coming in solid sheets of water. And Henry kept saying, "Oh, water comeen down! Oh!" We splashed down rivulets formerly known as streets in schlurpey sponges formerly known as shoes. Henry continued to let out sporadic chuckles, which I was immeasurably grateful for because as long as I knew my baby was ok, I was ok. And then lightning bolts started flashing across the sky and long rumbles and loud crashes of thunder started roaring around us in rapid succession. And Henry called them "Like-een and Funder," which made us laugh. But still, my pulse raced because I have never, ever in my twenty four years of existence, seen storms like the Texas sky makes. I said silent prayers all the way home that we wouldn't get struck by lightning. We ran as fast as our legs could carry us. All the while, I was in total amazement at the fact that when I up the speed on the treadmill at home, there burns a camp fire in my lungs and I cramp up in sideaches and quickly slow down, but in the tumult of a storm, adreanaline added to fear made me run like Forrest Gump in spite of the wrenching abdominal pain. And by the time we finally made it home, I'm quite certain that we were soaked all the way to the marrow of our bones.
But we were safe.
And happy to be home.