Crack the Spine - Issue 160

noises I heard—branches clawing the window and thrashing the walls—were the sounds of a storm.

The wind made a tremendous noise like the trumpeting of angry elephants, and then came a titanic crash. I pulled the quilt over my head and, shivering, waited for the roof to collapse.

When I woke again, my mouth was parched. My head ached. The room was blindingly bright.

Through streaked glass I saw a placid blue sky and gray rooftops and jadecolored water.

Wrapping a quilt around me I stumbled to the window. Below were huge upturned root balls. The conifers lay across the yard, their branches reaching for the sun.

Farther on, past neighboring rooftops, was the vast glittering green sea. On the horizon white caps appeared like drops of cream and then were gone. Near the shore, wave after glassy wave swelled and struck, splattering white foam on strand and rock.

I pressed my forehead to the glass.

My father must have gambled that I, like he, would see beyond what was to what might yet be.

I hadn’t.

But I could begin.

I pried up the sash.

Then breathed deep.