I walked to the convenient store. More out of boredom than desire. It’s a stormy night with winds so strong I have fears of being swept away.

Serious doubts in my judgement to leave the apartment— but nine thirty on a Saturday night reached a boiling point where the only option was on the other side of my front door.

The rain fell heavy like snow as the walkway light illuminated it against the black sky. The first savage gust of wind hit me at the top of the fourth floor as I stood in the dark. I almost turned back before a guy turned the corner and nearly gave me a heart attack. I muttered “sorry” a Bob of the head and was moving past him down the stairs before I could consider heading back inside. Inertia sent me on my way and I duly obliged.

I drew my hood up and dropped the brim over the edge of my hat as I passed by the first stretch of woods.

All I could think was a figure bursting out of the tree line in a dead sprint. I lowered my hood to welcome the rain. It washed away the thoughts of any phantom sprinters. But I didn’t get comfortable enough to pull it back up until I was at the bottom of the hill a quarter mile away.

Out in front of the hospital a flap snapped in the wind. Drawing my attention to the shadows it flew in.

All my fears manifested in the clank of the metal ties and rope as they slammed against the flagpole.

It’s terrifying how storms can strip you of your age. They toss you back to childhood with a howling winds. Something in the air casts longer shadows— making the promise of safety that morning makes a distant thing. All the long seconds on Christmas Eve can’t compare to those spent huddled under a blanket on the fiercest of stormy nights.

A grand haul of two tall boys were the reward of my efforts of slogging it down the hill and back up again. Forty minutes in the storm and only the efforts of former coaching gear kept me sheltered from the worst of the wet.

I’d been in a state of boredom that redeemed itself by the focus it lends. Idle turned cogent as I found myself starting this piece via dictation as I struggled through the storm.

I’ve been struggling lately— feeling adrift as a wash of memories spring up.

The turn of February has always been a dark period in my years. An exquisite teacher, the month of February, a far greater instigator of niche studies than January.

Maybe it’s the catharsis of walking through a shit heap night of weather. Maybe it’s this swirling mess of memories that’s slipping one by one from an unseen lacuna.

Or maybe it’s just the physical effort waking my body back up after a sedentary day.

Whatever it is, it’ll pass like the storm. Like all storms. Like all seasons.

And on restless nights when we’d best stayed tucked in blankets and far away from the imaginary monsters that lurk at the edge of our vision, we’ll stroll into the night— just to prove that we can.