backstory: carry on my wayward son

When I was really young (6 or 7?) a tornado ripped through our street. It tore the windows off our porch, downed some trees and basically just missed flinging us over the rainbow (or at least so I thought, not knowing a small tornado from a big one and only hearing the howl, the rattle, the scream... only seeing the strewn wreckage, oddly tilting cars, garden of broken screens).

Right around this time, for years afterwards, I would have a recurring dream.

Kitchen table, kids around a lemon cake in the center, bright yellow walls circa 1900 with a burnt out 60's era mod stove, pot of cooking grease on the counter and cabinets that never closed (taking out the eyes of wayward wanderers, slammed for effect, a place to hang a hand when engaged in light banter).

Gloomy day, wind whipping through the windows, darkness leaking into the corners of the now dank space. Rattle, then knock, then pound, on the back door.

I answer. I'm 5.

Wind now teaching the trees a new more violent dance, rain spattering my face, a shadow standing in the doorway, I can't see who it is, no face, just a questioning stare, begging me to answer, I lean out and suddenly I'm grabbed by the arms of the tornado, screaming but have lost my voice, I scrabble for hold somewhere on the door frame, lose it, edge of porch slips by, last moment I find a bit of railing, nails digging in, I'm horizontal now, legs slamming into each other, bruises leaking out across my skin, I'm screaming but my voice is gone, no breath, no energy, struck dumb, the door shuts with a bang, they can't hear me, candles lit on cake, birthday verse echoing in the distance off key and snatched away by the presence that is now coming for me.

I try to negotiate, I try whispering, I try pulling myself back onto the porch, the shadow of my worst childhood enemy stands at the doorway looking out, I plead with my eyes before they are blasted shut by pebbles, rocks, debris. I'm crying. Hiccuping, coughing, shuddering, weak, muscles losing grip, sapped of strength.

I wake up. Remember the last time I had the dream was a year back. Wonder what it means to have it once a year for years and years.

Realize it means something, nothing, practice for a rainy day, cautionary tale, means the promise of death, of silent words, of crushing force, of people looking out and souls looking in, something, nothing.

Happy day.