Meteorology
Meteorology
Excerpt:
My father said that he could see a storm coming. He stood on the roof of our house. The black shingles were warped, the eavestrough dangled on one side, but he seemed stable enough. He’d climbed up via a ladder balanced on the rickety porch, secured with a rope lassoing the chimney. Now he kept his knees bent in his corduroy pants, his arms perpendicular to his sides, like a surfer’s. His white hair was sculpted into a terrific mess for which he could not blame the wind.
“It’ll be a brutal one,” he yelled, shielding his eyes with his hand.
It was nighttime, the sky black. The orange wind sock he’d installed on the roof peak hung limp and deflated, and the weather vane, pointing north, was not moving; a flick of an index finger against the rusting metal would have had more force than the evening’s slight breeze.
“Dad, come down,” I said gently. “Finn? Please?”
He didn’t always respond to “Dad,” didn’t always remember he was my father. He slept on the living room couch, the Weather Channel playing 24/7. Tonight, he was up on the roof because I’d threatened to go out after dinner. “The roads!” he had yelled. “In this weather! It’s not safe!” It was the middle of February, but the roads were desert-dry, the air above freezing. At twenty-two, I was my father’s daughter and guardian. (One Story)