“Tears are the language of the soul.”
Yesterday, with the coming rain, I was on edge. I was exhausted and distracted and anxious. When the lightning and thunder began, I lit candles and filled water jugs and waited. During the night, I slept fitfully, hearing the water teeming from the sky; but I am fine.
I live up on a hill in Marlboro, above the Whetstone, a few hundred yards from where it took out the bridge to Camp Neringa and stranded wedding guests for days.
By comparison, my house and driveway are relatively untouched.
And still, I am afraid.
I’ve had enough of flooding and vanishing roads and friends in crisis.
And still, the rains come.
Out of courtesy, I put in a call to my busy, doctor father who tried to reach me during it all. My entire extended family has long been frustrated that I don’t have a cell phone, and when the devastation hit Vermont, they were exceptionally concerned following our days without power or phone.
Today is a holiday, so my father is probably in Annapolis where he spends his weekends sailing. I try him on his cell, and end up leaving a message; after which I feel hot tears spring to my eyes–like those of a child.
Though I’ve never been a “daddy’s girl,” I have to restrain myself from weeping when he returns my call.
Kelly Salasin, Marlboro, Vermont