Final Florida

I. My father thinks I don’t know how to come in from the rain, literally. Every time the clouds curdle he walks that slow, slouchy heaving step to my room to see if I know how to shut my window to see if rain has swept in, swept me out.                             II. Mother says, Don’t dare drink the water in Florida, It’s from black clouds, and I know a couple in Daytona that died.  You’ve heard stories of lovers in separate places that say the same thing at the same time, die the same death. Some think that’s romantic fate, she thinks it’s clouds in Florida, the same clouds Jesus called father, the ones that spark and putter—old man’s pace maker. They move in packs like cigarettes, like spies.                            III. It’s not up to you, mother mumbles. If you leave it alone, it might just happen anyways. Think of all the surprises about to happen. These are her disjointed terms—I forgot what our conversation was about anyways as I stand, walk out the kitchen door. Father has pulled out of the driveway and there is thunder, a chaosmos in the air. I almost love surprises.  I almost wrote hate.                             IV. Tomorrow if my roof caves, the weeping willow falls into my bedroom, hail through my window, I will know to call for help but no one will reach me before the clouds set in, my last breath like stale wind.