In the Storm, Safe from the Storm
There’s a concrete stoop, but only the barest overhang to cover it, hardly anything to keep away the rain or the blistering sun. When a storm comes, my father sets his chair right in the doorway, straddling the jamb. I love the storms. If I’m asleep, he lifts me up and carries me through the dark house to sit with him in the doorway and listen to the wind and the thunder.