I awoke when the winds howled outside our bedroom window.
The winds had been whipping since our going to bed, and that was unsettling, but this wind, the howling wind, had much more malevolence. I was not unsettled. I was scared.
I hopped from the bed and started off to do something, I don't know what, maybe save the world. I didn't have my senses with me yet. I stumbled to the front of the house and looked out the window. The only way I can think to describe what I saw was it looked like a hurricane had settled over us. White sheets of rain blasted sideways across our yard, and the trees gripped the earth in terror. I heard broken limbs bouncing off the roof.
"There's a tornado warning," my wife snapped into my trance. And the city's sirens started to blare.
We sprang to action. I grabbed the emergency radio and flashlights, and Cherish grabbed Willow. We huddled in our safe spot, the garage stairwell that drops alongside the base of the house. But by then the worst of the storm had passed.
A few minutes later, we retreated to the television to watch the band of storms sprint to the east. A few minutes after that, we returned to bed. A wide-awake toddler kept us up for another hour, though.
I have a poor memory for such things, but I recall only one storm more alarming than this one since Cherish and I moved to this house in 2007. Neither storm nor any lesser storms caused damage worth noting, and much lesser storms and ice have downed bigger limbs.
But this is the first time a storm caused me to panic about the safety of my child.
That sort of terror strikes you at your core.
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