We ran laughing under the thick-leaved tree. The dark low clouds had suddenly unloaded and the rain flew down thickly, in silv’ry, nickel-sized drops. The severe, gray skyscrapers cut up into the clouds, thrusting, disappearing. We stood there, glad to be only half-protected, sensing the immensity and closeness of the storm. It seemed almost to be a friend, a friend who wished to celebrate all champion-like strength in the world. Thunder and lightning came, deep, thorough, booming thunder and fiecely determined lightning, like a totally desiring, commanding will. And we both leaned back and looked up, silver-cold spray in our eyes and in our mouths, full of the wonder and innocent power of it all, feeling like giants.
Just as suddenly it stopped. A gradually widening slit appeared in the sky’s gray mink. A long, gleaming, silvery, naked, tapering form, reached, stretched, pointed, touched a yellow-gold sun, which blazed a pillar of life down into the splashing city! We turned to each other, and our hands sought and found our hands around our exulting bodies, and the meaning of the storm and the city, man and earth and sky, was welcomed, honored, blessed, in the meeting of our radiant eyes and lightning lips.
From the short down-pour widening streams then sped and rushed along the curbs, reflecting the glory above us, and we ran and leaped over them, leaped over the great human heights, to land with a light splash, happily in love and alive together, with many stormy and sunny days to come.
That was some thirty years ago, my dear, and now, as we stand in our penthouse and look out over the thick and gathering clouds just below our feet, let us go take the elevator down and walk out into the busily bustling street. I think it highly probable that we shall find a lightning that strikes in the same place twice.
“Highly probable? It’s a certainty, my dear logical husband.”