Chain Lightning The old man, like every old man, carried a drought in his eyes. He had lived long enough to know that sometimes the rain just quits. And he knew doubt grows 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 will. 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 hope. It cracked down the middle. Like it was all stalk. But after every dawn-to-dark day, he would clear away his one dish and step out the front door. He’d walk into the rows un...
She ended up in Tucson, married to a kind man with sad eyes who ran a spare parts yard. They had three children, and she grew old with him. She wrote me once, many years later, to explain how it had all worked out for her—how she had slowly become happy, or at least as close to it as an orphan's soul allows. She wrote that she thought I saved her, first in that alley and then with that bus ticket. The truth is,she saved me. But redemption is never a one-time thing. It demands a kind of repetition—like a prayer. And a soul must be washed free of the dust of living again and again. So we work the dirt of dreams into our hands and pray that something beneath the struggle—something true in it—will find its way down into us. Through our scars. She wrote that she still dreamed of the nights in that tiny place with a broken window, and a young man filled with stains and the murmur in his heart. She said she loved him in the way a woman does when she knows it’ll never be spoken of...