Portrait of Isolation

A winding path leading through knee-high grass gone to seed ends at a weathered farmhouse 

Inside, unopened mail piled high clutters a tiny kitchen  

A frail woman sitting alone pushes her plate of half-eaten toast away  

A low rumbling vibrates a loose windowpane somewhere in the room 

She remembers when she and Jim looked forward to a storm, cool downdrafts providing relief from the oppressive Sandy Run summer’s  

How long has he been gone?  

She heard dripping inside the home the last time there was a hard rain; Jim would have known what to do 

She tries to remember what her son said about checking on her; she hopes it’s today  

Cold air, heavy smelling of dust, filters through a partially open window, and she knows it is upon her  

The darkened skies and dim lighting reduce her vision to shadows; she longs to hold Jim’s hand  

The storm engulfs the home, pelting steely rain against every surface 

The lashing winds coming from every direction  

Brilliant flashes followed by deafening explosions shudder the old wood frame 

Prolonged gusts rushing through the old oak produce a roar like a waterfall on a swollen river 

Grasping the edge of the table with both hands, she desperately searches within for an elusive, calm 

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