I sat in the backseat, a child,
watching clouds break apart.
A line of cars, headlights on,
pavement drying below us.
At the cemetery my aunt said
the rain stopped and clouds moved
to make room for big papaw
to get through to heaven.
I sat in the living room, an adult,
the same place I’d sat for 40 years.
The sky flashed and rain fell sideways,
thunder out of time with ragged breaths.
We held our own, waiting,
quieter than the nervous children outside.
The storm eased then stopped
with those ragged breaths.