Rainstorm (Revised)

 

A phalanx of powerful rain drops fall from the unremitting charcoal sky. Each drop propels itself down onto the car hood with such ferocity that the surface of the vehicle reverberates, as if under attack from a battery of bass drums. Each raindrop then jumps straight up for a small measure to land again in a timpani of lighter drum beats. Little rivulets leap over the edge of the car to merge with comrades on the flooded road. My eyes watch, mesmerized by orchestration and choreography, the beautiful ballet of the inundation.

            Then my brain interrupts, warning my consciousness of the drenching danger. My hands grip the wheel, and I force my eyes to focus on the deluged road. Through the windshield and the thick mist ahead, I can just make out the indefinite blinking taillights of the car in front, and through the fogged-up rear view window, the vague headlights of the car behind. Our brave convoy slogs slowly, single-file down the diminished highway.   Other drivers, perhaps with more discretion, have pulled over. There are two semis and a dozen cars pulled off to the side of the road.

            I am too frightened to pull over. Images from recent newscasts sequence through my head: newly formed rapids rushing down Main Streets, cars carried away by the whitewater, drivers air-lifted from the roofs of cars, head-shots of people who drowned in the torrents. Also, the memory of driving home in the middle of a surprise spring blizzard decades ago, still haunts me. My sister, peering through a fogged-up windshield, cautiously navigated the snow-clogged road. We watched in horror, as almost every car that tried to pull slipped or flipped against the trees and rocks on the side of the Thruway. Today, at this risky moment, I resolve to forge ahead, tense but alert, just as my sister had.

            Finally, in the distance, I see a clearing in the threatening skies, a patch of shimmer. I can see the low forms of the Berkshire Hills on the horizon, contrasted by a dull glare above them. As the rainfall lessens, and I drive toward the brightness, I feel my shoulders drop three inches and a gasp of relief escape my lips. My beloved Berkshires are revealed again. There is a whisper of promise ahead.

Marsha H.