It was there that I waited for my daughter to come and pick me up.
We had made the plan earlier in the day, but now, at 7:30 in the evening, a brave rainstorm with howling winds abruptly changed the calm into a torrent of disasters.
Perhaps she hadn’t left her home yet.
Perhaps she took cover under a bridge.
Perhaps she will be late and that will be okay.
Perhaps something or nothing happened.
The chocolate, cold, yummy yogurt tingled my tongue, and I took notice.
Should I call or text her? I did neither.
A short and sincere prayer would give me comfort. I whispered it. I refused to look at the time. Time did not matter. I watched the glass door open, bringing unfamiliar drenched people into our contained space.
I choked on my chocolate, cold, yummy yogurt.
I waited until . . .
I saw her purple raincoat precede her.
She was safe but shaken.
I ceased my ruminations.
I breathed myself into serenity.
The tornado had touched down and was gone.
The trauma, however, stays long after the rainbow appears.