When does the family document the
thunder? With each and every crack. The four of them--mother, father, sister,
brother--sit in silence at the dining table, each with a candle in a glass
enclosure before them, a small scratch pad covered in hash marks, and a new
blue Bic pen.
The lightning does not faze them.
Neither the static crackle as it blasts the trees around the house, nor the
wind that whips through the open window and flickers the flames about the room
as it musses their hair, even slows down their thundercounting.
If they wanted to talk to each other, they
would have to shout over the wind and the hail that pelts the roof and the
torrents of rain that pour from the sky in a constant waterfall. But they do
not talk, and show no signs of wanting to.
The water comes in with the wind
but none of them are wet. None of their paper is wet. Indeed, it seems as
though the water affects nothing, although it begins to pool up in the corners
of the room.
The dog sits in his puddle,
counting the water droplets as they roll towards him, each one meeting with a
tail flick. The cat does nothing but lick its paw in an unceasing pattern.
There is neither sign of the
storm's abatement nor indication that the family is aware of anything but the
incessant thunder.