Chain Lightning The old man, like every old man, had a drought in his eyes. He had lived long enough to know that sometimes the rain just quits. Doubts grow and fears get loose at 3 a.m. He came to expect the ache in his back and trust in his sweat to be a different kind of rain. Like there was a storm in him. A kind of dry lightning. He had seen droughts before. But this year seemed different. The ground was harder. So was living. His wife, so sick, smiled once like she was remembering him on one knee, promising to give her everything he would ever have. But here he was, doubling up, both knees now, begging God for Time. And though God listens, Time never does. After she was gone, the drought felt like it would finally dry up the last drop of his dreams. The corn went dry, then so did his hope. It cracked down the middle. Like it was all stalk. After every dawn to dark day, he would clear away his one dish and step out the front door. He’d walk into the ro...
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