"Comin' right up." I say, walking out into the hall way.
I pass by my sister's room. Her door hangs open. It's quiet and empty, and makes me think of how lonely the house must feel at times, when she and I are away at college. It's a big house, full of memories. I wonder what mom does to keep busy during the days, when we're not there. She'd lost a lot of weight over the winter, as well as toned up remarkably, thanks to one of the other neighbor moms dragging her off to the gym every morning. So I imagine that she'd been at it pretty hard while we were gone. It seems to be the empty-nester thing to do now-a-days. It's certainly healthier than sitting on the couch, watching day time talk shows and shitty soap operas all day long.
As I descend the stairs, the silhouette of the large living room window lights up the wall next to me for a moment, and I begin counting again. That memory comes back to me as I do, of nine year old me curled up in my mother's lap, terrified of the thunder, but momentarily distracted by our counting in unison after each flash of lightning.
It occurs to me that we haven't had a good storm in a long time. Lots of rain but not near this much thunder. It always makes me think of those nights with my mother, remembering how her voice, and the warmth of her body around mine, calmed me down and made me feel safe.
I barely get to one thousand three, and reach the kitchen, when the loudest crack of thunder yet, shakes the wine glasses hanging from the cabinet behind me. I briefly consider turning on the kitchen light, but then I remember that more of those huge windows occupy nearly every wall on the ground floor of the house, and I opt not to. There is always the chance that the storm has awakened our neighbors, and those lights would turn our kitchen into a giant, neighborhood theater, with my naked ass as the star of the show.
I pull open the refrigerator door, spilling light out into the kitchen. The cold air hits me, reminding me that my cock, balls and thighs are still a little wet from my earlier activities with she-who-craves-brownies, currently snoozing in my bed. I squint my eyes at the light, but they adjust quickly, and I find the leftovers sitting on the middle shelf.
A few minutes later I'm sitting in the breakfast nook, watching the rain softly hitting the windows around me with a gentle tapping sound. I eat a small bowl of chicken and rice, as the image of my mother, leaning over nine year old me, forms in my mind again. She was wearing one of dad's old, stretched out, white tank tops. I remember she used to wear those as "comfies" around the house all the time when we were little. They just sort of hung on her, displaying a more than generous amount of skin all around. I remember vividly, the feel of that warm skin against my face as we counted together. Then the thunder would hit, I would jump, and she would squeeze me tighter, smiling at me. Then we would wait for the next flash of lightning.
Those tank tops went away when dad left. I miss them. Him... not so much.
I got over that fear of thunder pretty quickly, but I continued to play the counting game with my mother for years. Thunderstorms meant cuddling, feeling her warmth, listening to her voice, and feeling her soft kisses on my forehead. My sister is younger than me by several years, but I don't remember her ever sharing my fear of lightning and thunder. She always seemed enthralled by a good rain storm, but sometimes she would sit next to us, just to count with us. That part was fun for everybody.
My fork makes that familiar tinkling sound as I scrape the last bits of rice out of my bowl, and the living room once again comes to life for a split second as lightning strikes somewhere off in the distance. I resume mentally counting, as I rinse my bowl in the sink.
I get to seven one thousand when the thunder reaches the house. It's not as loud as last time, certainly further away. The corner of the kitchen lights up again, as I remove the tray of brownies from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and the door closes behind me with that familiar snapping sound. Mom always makes brownies for us when we come home to visit, it's become something of a tradition.
The rain picks up, now pelting the window with considerably more force.
