The storm that wasn't

It might rain tomorrow. It might not.

The young man at the Dairy Queen drive-through says a storm is a’comin. He says it just like that too — “storm’s a’comin,” as if he is 75 and watching clouds froth on the horizon while he rubs his arthritic knee absentmindedly. In reality he is not yet 16. His t-shirt is splattered, Jackson Pollock style, had Pollock worked in ice milk. 

I thank the lad for the forecast and for the small twist cone dipped in chocolate. I promise to head home straight away, promise to drive carefully. He might be a Boy Scout, I figure; I should help him earn a patch for his work shirt. 

I too labored at a DQ when I was his age, a bit younger, in fact, and for cash payment only. I too was never quite able to keep the splatter of summer from coating my uniform. 

Tonight I am hoping to celebrate a summer trifecta — ice cream, sunset, and storm — but the rains do not come. The system that darkened the sky earlier must have shifted southward. Perhaps this is for the best, since tonight I am home by myself. Storms, though pleasant alone, tend to improve in good company. 

The child who used to sit on my lap to watch the rains wash our streets has grown and moved to the city. The dog who stretched out alongside, smelling delights through the screen with twitching nostrils, in time grew old and gray and endearingly batty. She now lies deep beneath the sod in the backyard. 

The sky flushes pink and blue before darkening. I wink back at the memory of the woman I once was, fumbling for loose change in the center console of a dented Chevy, toddler and puppy bouncing with anticipation in the drive through. She’s working so hard. She’s having so much fun. She’s paying attention. I like her. 

Older now, but still with plenty of ice cream and rainstorms in my future (hopefully), I sit on the front steps and watch the neighborhood tuck itself in. No storms are a’comin. At least not tonight.